Morning en route to Joffa

If he can pry the sleep of history from his eyes, then maybe he'd spot the dead Arab in his bed. He'd never believe the truth if we told him, that he'd have to make the journey to Joffa on his own, without the help of the hired hand that now lay lifeless on his bed. The stark appearance of tanned skin mixed with the surprisingly dark blood - a crimson meets obsidian motif - if he could allow himself a thought that felt debased with the years of rigorous training he might have received from the infantry if his head didn’t pound with the weight of a dozen dead Arabs.

He wasn’t responsible for his death; he knew that much by looking at the execution-style craftsmanship of the kill. He remembered befriending the man after they had shared a few pipefulls of whatever was in the hukka they passed around last night, after learning of their similar ancestry.

He’d remembered falling asleep with the stars rocking him to sleep as they told the tails of the ancients, that provided a visual accompaniment to the fables the man told between rigorous coughs, readjustments of the man’s lungs.

They only thing he could think of was a setup, it had to be a setup, on this side of the Israeli border it would have looked like a strategic killing, one of a premeditated nature.

He had a lot of explaining to do.