It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. It’d be helpful if they did, especially with the fucker I currently have slung over my shoulder giving me one hell of a neck cramp. But, what can you do? Assassins gotta assassinate. It’s part of the job description…literally.

Anyhoo. This particular body belongs...

It's impossibly ugly this sweater, but I wear it each week, no matter the weather

Its fraying strands and moth-eaten holes are a story of when we were together

This one was that fight in the rain

This one was running to catch that train

This dark stain on the chest

was once the place where your head would rest

Now you're gone but the story remains

in the sweater I wear, even when it rains...

Have you ever thought about how long 90 seconds really is? A minute and a half. A minute and a half stood between me and impending death.

“You have 90 seconds to hide” the masked man said as he paced before all us kneeling figures that at one point could have been people. Men. “If you are found, you die where you stand. Last one discovered will be released.”

And that’s the ultimate goal, isn’t ...