Not everybody gets to attend her own funeral.

And yet here I am, sitting in the last pew of the church, where my funeral is being held. People have been getting up, one after another, sharing their memories about me, saying things they've felt for a long time, but I never knew. It's hard to keep from laughing or crying as I hear about some of these memories. Right now, one of my friends is talking about summer camp last year. I almost laugh as she recalls the time we decided to play jokes on all the campers.

"Watch it." Calista says flatly. "Those people aren't supposed to know you, remember?"

Calista is my guide. You can't tell right now as she's sitting, but she's tall for a woman, nearly six feel tall. She is Mediterranean, with long, curly dark hair, and tanned skin. She has beautiful round, dark eyes and this oval little face. Like a little crow or something. I wonder if she was always that beautiful, or if she had the surgeon give her the upgrade deal.

I should explain that I'm not actually dead. Not dead as is not breathing, no heartbeat. Just socially dead. I'm leaving one life behind, as I start another. This new life requires me to be socially dead. It's kind of like those fake deaths you see in movies. There was a car accident, a body was found, and supposedly, it was my body. Only it really isn't. No one knows the difference though. I gotta admit, when we were viewing the body, it sure did look like me. Let me tell you, nothing sends chills up your spine more than looking down at yourself in a casket at a funeral. Brr.

The funeral begins to wrap up. Calista gives me a nudge as she stands. The burial will follow, but I guess we don't need to be here for that. The sooner we leave, the better. We're sitting in the back of the church, so exiting should be easy.

But nothing is ever easy.

No sooner than we cross the doorway outside do we run into my mother. Why is she out here? Oh yeah, that's right - overcome with emotion, she left during the service. I stop dead in my tracks, and so does she. She looks at me for a moment. Does she recognize me? Her eyes are red, and I can tell she hasn't slept since she heard the news. I hate having done this to her. I almost speak. But what can I say? And wouldn't she recognize my voice? So I stand there looking stupid, not knowing what to do.

My mother finally breaks the silence. She smiles, slightly, while looking down. "I'm sorry. It's just that...you look a little like my daughter."

I still can't speak. What am I supposed to say here? There's nothing that I could say that would come out right.

"She gets that a lot." Calista speaks for me. "We're sorry, but we have to go."

My mother nods, and we barrel past her. It's a short walk to the parking lot, where Calista's fire red Mustang convertible stands out amidst mini-van and SUV suburban America. We get in quickly, and as simple as that, we're off. The church diminishes behind me, until it's gone. The church, and all the people inside. I realize that this is the last time I may ever see them.

"Was that okay?" I ask. "Going to my own funeral?"

Calista smiles, putting on her sunglasses, as her dark hair whips behind her. "Actually, we encourage it. Part of the letting go process. Because, you know, you really are dead. That might not have been you in your car, but as soon as the accident happened, Julie Cantrell died. Now it's time for you to leave everything behind you, and start your new life."

My new life. That's what I wanted all along, right? A chance to get away from it all. Escape from a world I felt I didn't belong in. The chance to do something daring and exciting. Sure, it all sounds romantic now, but driving away from your own funeral, you tend to rethink things a bit.

"I'm going to miss my family and friends." I'm only half aware I'm actually speaking this, perhaps I'm talking to the wind.

"That's only natural." Calista keeps her eyes focused on the road ahead. "But just look at it this way - what you're doing now, you'll be working to protect their way of life. Hey, someone's got to do it, might as well be you."

I'm the newest recruit for some top-secret government organization. So secret in fact, it doesn't even have a name. People just call it "the organization", to the extent that that's almost become its new name. As if you were writing it, you'd have to capitalize it. The Organization.

Yeah, I know. It all sounds very contrived. Like some kind of cheesy plot device, something you'd pay eight bucks to see with your friends at the downtown theater. Fake deaths, beautiful brunettes, fast sports cars, all that stuff. And yet, here I am, right in the middle of it. It still seems very unreal to me. I guess none of it has really sunk in. I wonder if it ever does.

"The path you've chosen now is an important one." This isn't the first time Calista has said this to me. I guess she thinks its something she needs to drive home. "You are sacrificing a lot, and it has to be done."

They, or should I say we at this point, do the dirty work that the United States government claims to be above. Assassinations, blackmail, sabotage, the works. All in the name of protecting America. The members of this organization, agents, are all ghosts - men and women who are believed to be dead. Other than our appearance, we can't be traced back to American soil. We do the dirty work until we're killed.

Trust me, it all sounds a lot better when Calista is making the sales pitch.

"So, have you thought up a handle yet?" She suddenly asks me. I'm a bit off guard, so I don't know what she's talking about. "You know, a handle," she explains. "We have to refer to you by something. Like I said, Julie Cantrell is dead. So you need a new name. Just one will do. Like me - Calista. You can choose a nickname, or create whatever you want."

I might be giving up my life here, but I happen to like my name. "Can't I keep Julie?"

Calista shrugs. "It's not very creative. But sure, suit yourself. We don't have any Julie's around, so you can use it." She pauses, as we wind through the residential area, making our way towards the city. "You will need an alias though, for various different missions you may go on. The organization will probably assign you one."

I nod in acknowledgement. "So, where are we going?"

"I haven't heard from my superiors yet, so I don't think they have anything planned for you at present. I thought I'd continue to show you the ropes, and take you to a favorite hangout of mine. Any objections?"

I shake my head.

"Good! Well, agent Julie, have you ever been overseas?"

I shake my head again.

"Then today's your lucky day. One of the nice things about being an agent is, when we're not on assignment, we can pretty much do whatever the hell we want. So, I'm going to take you to a good place. You'll see." Calista smiled, gently tapping the accelerator as we merged onto the freeway. I raised my window, but it didn't keep the wind from assaulting me overhead. As my dingy, flat blond hair slapped me in the face, all I could think was how lifeless it was compared to Calista's curly locks.

Not everybody gets to go to France.

I've never been before today. Today is full of firsts. My own death, my funeral, now France. I never thought that after I died, I'd go to France. Hell maybe, France no.

Several hours and a helicopter ride later, Calista and I are standing in front of the place she mentioned earlier. It's a small tavern in Paris. It's made of smoky red bricks that look like they'd crumble if you touched them. There's a green sign at the top of the building, where the name of the place used to be, but time has erased the letters. It's very picturesque. The kind of thing you'd put on a postcard and send to someone.

"We came all this way to go to a bar?" Granted, I'm grateful to be in Paris, but America has bars too.

"We came all this way for the atmosphere." Calista takes off her sunglasses, revealing her pretty black eyes. "No one goes to a bar for the alcohol. Come on." She opens the door and leads me inside. The bar is on the right - there are a few men seated there, and a bartender wearing a white dress shirt and black suspenders behind the bar. The bar itself is outlined with gold - the gold seems to glow off the lining, giving the place a strange sort of haze. There are a few tables to the left and up front, a television mounted on the wall, and three sets of pool tables near the back. One of the tables is in use.

Calista leads me to the bar. She orders a drink from the bartender - a daiquiri - all the while flirting heavily with him, throwing her hair around as if she was obligated to do so. He pays it no attention, as if he's seen it before. He gives me a quick glance, then apparently deciding I wasn't worth any effort, goes off to make the drink.

Calista turns back to me. "Well, agent Julie, what do you think of the place?"

My eyes widen. "Should you be calling me that here?" I keep my voice hushed.

Calista laughs. A small, petite laugh that tickled the air. "Here, it's ok. Look around. Everyone in here, except for the barkeep, is an agent for the organization. This is one of our favorite hangouts. If you're in-between missions and don't feel like doing anything extravagant, this is a great place to go."

I look around - they are all so young. Young like me. They are mostly wearing black - from black blazers and sport coats to black sweaters, slacks, and military pants. They talk, laugh, and play around with each other, much like any group of young people might.

Calista grinned as she laid her eyes upon a man sitting to our right at the bar. She gets up, putting her arm around him as she takes a seat to his right. "Old timer! I'm glad to see you're still around! Weren't you just in Cuba?"

The man, Old timer, looked up from his drink. He didn't even look that old, mid thirties at best. He had frayed brown hair, with loose strands of it tumbling across his face. He hadn't shaven, so there was a fine layer of coarseness adorning his square jaw. He was sitting, but I could tell he was tall, and of an impressive build. Like an eagle with its wings tucked in. In his left hand - the one not holding a drink, he played with a fountain pen, spinning it between his fingers.

"The mission went better than expected, so I was able to pull out early." Old timer returned Calista's smile, but without nearly as much energy. "So I'm just killing time here until they ship me off again."

"You should learn to live a little. If you're still here next week, maybe I'll take you out old man. They always say you should show respect to your elders." Calista looked back at me. "Agent Julie, this is agent Mikhal."

"Nice to meet you." I said, bowing my head slightly.

"Ah, so this is your new recruit." Mikhal gave me a once-over, then, much like the bartender, decided I wasn't worth it and returned to Calista.

I really hate that.

Calista smiled again, her fake, flirty smile. "Her tests were exceptional. She's got some real potential. She's showed signs that she'll be an top-notch agent, maybe even as top-notch as you are."

Mikhal bit his lower lip. "I'm not top-notch. Just lucky."

"And modest. You're awesome and you know it. I can only hope I get to be as old as you are." Calista spun around, looking towards the pool tables. Another playful smile crossed her face. "Here Julie, take my seat. Have a drink, and introduce yourself to some of the other agents. It would do you some good to talk to Mikhal too, he's a veteran here. Or at least, the closest thing to one you can have in our line of work." Calista hopped down and sauntered over to the pool tables. I took her seat, continuing to watch her. She stood a few feet away, watching the game for a moment, before sliding closer and interjecting herself.

"What are you guys playing for?" She asked, looking innocently curious.

"Whoever wins buys drinks for the house." One of the players responded, a redhead with a crew cut.

"Boring. Tell you what," Calista said, as she bent over the table. "Let's make this interesting. Whoever wins gets to take me home tonight."

The redhead and the other player looked at each other in disbelief before huge smiles crossed their faces. The other men in the bar all shouted in protest, to which Calista promised them they'd have their chance soon enough. I can't say this surprised me, but it wasn't exactly endearing.

Next to me, Mikhal smiled to himself. "That Calista's a real piece of work. Don't you think so?"

I suddenly realized his question was addressed to me. "Well...I don't really know. I can't say."

Mikhal finished off his drink, then signaled to the bartender. "Sure you know. You just don't want to. If there's anything you should learn about being an agent, it's not to hold back. Life is short. Especially yours. Never worry about walking on eggshells, never again."

The bartender brought Mikhal another drink, without asking what he wanted. Mikhal received it and immediately began drinking it. The bartender, recognizing my presence (I think being next to Mikhal helped), finally asks me if I wanted anything. I told him water, to which he gave me a strange look, and brought back a glass of water.

"Don't drink?" Mikhal stopped twirling his pen for a moment, then immediately resumed.

"Maybe later. I don't really want to right now."

I'm a social drinker. You know, only with friends and for fun.

"Calista told you about the mortality rate of agents, didn't she?"

I nodded. "Three to five years after joining, something like that."

"Sometimes it's more than that, sometimes it's less. Either way, you'll be dead before you're thirty. How old are you now?"

"Eighteen."

"Just out of high school?"

"Didn't finish. I would have graduated this year."

"I suppose it doesn't matter in the long run. Look kid, that's just how it goes, being an agent. Look around you - chances are, in the next five years, everyone in this room, save the bartender, will be dead. Including you. So don't bother trying to make friends or anything like that, because the next thing you know, either you or they will be gone. That's just the way it is."

"I see." It's a stupid response, but it's the best I've got. What am I supposed to say to that?

Mikhal turned to me, his hard eyes boring into mine. "But don't get me wrong kid. I'm not telling you to be introverted. Talk to these people. Have fun. Form acquaintances. Mankind is a funny animal. We need to have the presence of others to validate our existence. So yeah, make acquaintances. But not friends. That's probably the best advice I can give you, kid."

I nod. I feel so stupid sitting next to him. It's not a feeling I'm used to. I don't like it.

Calista makes her way back to the bar. She takes a look at my glass of water, obviously displeased. "Julie, what the hell." It comes out as a frustration rather than a question. She studies me for a moment, trying to figure out what will get me drunk fastest. "Barkeep, a vodka for my friend here."

"I don't really drink." I try to explain to her. I'm a social drinker, not an alcoholic.

"What, your parents told you the stuff would shorten your life, something like that?" She half smiles at me. "You no longer have to worry about anything like that. So drink up. It's good for you."

The bartender returns with my vodka, and some orange drink I know Calista didn't order. She takes it anyway, and nearly finishes it in one sip.

"You're very extravagant." I say half under my breath, not really wanting to say it but not able to stop myself.

Calista wraps an arm around me. It's heavy, like a tire. "You have to be, in our line of work. If I'm lucky, I'll live to be, what, thirty? That's one-third a normal life span. I'll be damned if I'm going to be cheated, so I need to live my life times three. It's not about the time Miss Julie, but what you do with it." Calista laughs to herself. "Miss Julie. I like that. You know, like a schoolteacher. I'm going to call you Miss Julie until you learn to lighten up."

"Suit yourself."

Over by the pool tables, the men are getting louder. Calista bats an eye over to them. "Uh-oh, looks like they're finishing up. That's my cue." She untied herself from me rather sloppily, then thrust a hand into one of her jean pockets and produced a pair of keys. "You still don't have a place to live yet, so for tonight, stay at my place. I'm not going to need it. I have a flat a few blocks from here. The Roaming Dove. Number sixteen, upstairs. Ask around if you can't find it. There are a lot of helpful people around here who understand a little English." Calista bids me farewell, and goes back towards the pool table. I think the redhead is about to win. That, or he grins stupidly right before he loses.

I think I've had enough atmosphere for one day. And I don't want that vodka. The hours have peeled away endlessly, and I'm ready for an end. Even ghosts need sleep.

Not everybody gets to wake up in a bed that isn't their own.

I wonder if this is some strange omen as to how this day is going to proceed. I can't say I slept well. Mainly, I kept thinking about Calista. Her sheets were soft, satin. Extravagant, like her. I remembered what she did in that bar last night, and I can't help wondering what foreign substances I just slept on.

I really need a shower.

There's something therapeutic about showers. The way the hot water strikes against your bare skin like needles, penetrating your body with warmth. The way the soap slips through my fingers. The way it peels away everything, from sweat and dirt, to the stuff a little deeper, the stuff soap isn't supposed to reach, but does anyway.

I finish my shower, and throw on one of Calista's red robes. I go to the sink to brush my teeth. I don't have a toothbrush, so I'll have to use one of Calista's. Yeah, I know that's nasty, but after sleeping on her bed, I kinda feel like I'm already knee deep in mud. Might as well roll around in it. The mirror is all fogged up from my shower. I reach up and try to wipe some of it away. I'm surprised by what greets me in the mirror, so much so that I actually drop the toothbrush.

You would too, if the face you saw in a mirror wasn't yours.

This is only the third time I've seen my face, post-plastic surgery. They didn't change a whole lot. The surgery didn't even take very long. But they changed enough. The face that greets me in the mirror now...it's not the same face that's been there for the past eighteen years. That face...she really is dead. Now there's a new face. Miss Julie.

It's not a bad face. It's attractive enough. I have blue eyes now, instead of green. My lashes are longer. My jaw is a little rounder. My lips are fuller. It's a little like when you first wake up, and your eyes are all blurry and you can't really see properly. Except what I'm looking at right now is perfectly clear.

I still have my dirty blonde mange atop my head. I've never liked it...I still don't, but somehow, it makes me feel better right now. I open up my robe a little. At least that's still the same. I actually do curve here and there. My chest sticks out too. I still remember when I first got these, how all the boys started looking at me differently. I liked the attention. Why are boys so obsessed with them anyway? My boyfriend always loved taking a nap with me, using my chest like some kind of pillow.

My boyfriend.

I wonder what he'd say if he could see me now. Hell, maybe he can. You know what they say about dead people, always watching over you. He's a ghost now, but not a ghost like me. Maybe he's been watching me the whole time. I wonder what he'd say.

As I leave the bathroom, I notice a manila envelope by the door, slid inside from under the crack. I figure it's for Calista, but as I pick it up to bring it inside, I notice my name on it. Julie Cantrell. At least, that used to be my name. Oh well. Miss Julie will accept this package on the behalf of the late Julie Cantrell.

Inside, there are plane tickets, train tickets, and an assortment of papers, along with black and white pictures of some guy. I skim over the papers. They're orders for a mission, a mission for me. That can't be right, I just got here. Isn't there some sort of training first? I have no idea what to do.

Where's Calista when you really need her?

I hurry up and get dressed, wearing the same gray turtleneck and black slacks I was wearing before. I feel sort of perverse wearing the clothes I wore to my funeral yesterday, but I don't feel like digging through Calista's closet. Her stuff wouldn't fit me anyway.

I decide to go back to the bar. I'm not sure about this mission, so maybe I'll find Calista, ask her for help. So when I return, I'm a bit disappointed to find that she isn't there. Imagine my surprise. Oh well, maybe one of these guys know where she is. It's morning, yet there are quite a number of people here. I spot Mikhal, sitting in the same place he was yesterday. He's a good start. So I walk up to him - I hate to bother his drinking - and I get his attention. He gives me that once over look again, then goes back to twirling his pen in his left hand, the same one he was playing with yesterday. I remember the girl opposite me in the mirror, and I don't see why he's so damn indifferent. Mikhal prompts me to speak. Obviously, I want something.

"I was looking for Calista, do you know where she is?" I ask.

"Haven't seen her since she left last night." Mikhal continues to nurse his drink, as if it's a child in his hand. "Usually when she leaves like that, we don't see her until late afternoon. Is there anything I can help you with, kid?"

"I found these orders last night...I thought they might be for Calista, but the envelope had my name on it."

"Then they would be your orders."

"I don't understand, I'm new...isn't there some sort of training at least?"

"Nope. You're supposed to be smart, resourceful. They gave you everything you need, so you put it to use. Given how quickly they go through agents, the organization doesn't see the need in wasting time to do training."

I nod my head, but I'm still lost. I have no clue what the hell I'm supposed to do here. I guess it's all over my face. Mikhal sees it, and I see his face soften. Maybe that's it, he goes for the helpless puppy type.

"Well, I really could use a hand here." I make sure to stick out my lower lip a little, the same way I used to do when I wanted a guy to do me a favor.

"You know," he says, "I always thought that was kind of a dumb policy. Tell you what kid, I'll help you out this time. Here, let me see your orders."

I give him my manila envelope, and he spends a few moments examining the contents. He then leaves the bar quickly and without warning. I have to almost jog to keep up with him. We go back to Calista's apartment, and he tells me to open up one of the closets. I do - there's some kind of high-powered sniper rifle in there.

We spend the rest of that morning training with the rifle. I've never actually held a real gun before, let alone fired one. Mikhal takes me to some firing range out in the country, and I'm supposed to hit empty whiskey bottles from ungodly distances away. By the afternoon, I'm up to ninety percent accuracy.

Mikhal tells me I need to get up to ninety-nine. After all, if you miss a whiskey bottle, it'll stay there for you to take another shot - people are a little bit different. So I pick off a few more bottles, and within another hour or two I've got my average up. I was always a fast learner.

By early evening, Mikhal and I are on a plane to Jerusalem. And then a train ride to somewhere called Beersheba. Yeah, I don't know where the hell that is either. But I'm going there to kill some guy. Life is funny like that.

Mikhal and I are seated somewhere in the middle of the plane. Somehow, I always thought people like us got to ride in first class. Guess not. Although, I do kind of like sitting out here in economy. Here among all the normal people. Like eggs in a carton. I bet they don't even know there's a pair of ghosts among them. Whenever I used to fly on a plane (which wasn't often), I used to look around at all the people, and wonder where they were coming from, where they were going. I wonder if someone is looking at me now, thinking the same thing? Do they realize that this simple little blond is on her way to go assassinate someone?

Oh, and don't ask how we managed to carry a high-powered sniper rifle on the plane. I still don't understand myself.

I'm going to go assassinate someone. I have to admit, I really haven't given much thought to the whole affair since receiving the orders this morning. Somewhere, off in little Beersheba, some guy is carrying on about his business. In a few hours, he won't be. He'll be dead, and I'll be the one to have killed him. Murdered him.

Will he have a funeral?

I turn to Mikhal. The whole time, he's been reading some book, and playing with his pen. "Hey Mikhal...can you tell me a little bit about this guy I'm after?"

Mikhal bats an eye towards me. I know, I'm keeping my voice down. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious I suppose."

"You know what that did to the cat."

"I'm not a cat."

"You really don't need to know anything about him. Just follow your orders kid."

"That cut and dry, huh?"

"Precisely. You just do what you're told to do, and don't question it. If they tell you to kill some guy, you do it. If they tell you to blow up a school bus full of children, you do it. The less you know about it, the better. You just have to trust that the guys calling the shots know what they're doing."

So that's it. Some suits say "kill this guy", I go do it. Hmph. For all I know, they lost a poker game to him last week and they're bitter over it.

Mikhal notices my displeasure. "And this bothers you?"

"I just don't like not being in the know. I like to be in control if possible, but at least I want to know what's going on."

Mikhal laughs. "I see, so this is a new feeling for you. Let me guess kid...you were popular in high school, right?"

"I had friends...I went out...I wasn't an outcast or anything...if you want to call that popular."

Mikhal looks up, studies me. "Okay, I can figure this one out. Hmm...you did well in school, you had friends, you hailed from upper-middle class America, with two cars in every garage and the kids wearing all the designer brand names. How'm I doing so far, kid?"

"Calista could have told you that. That's fairly easy to figure out."

"Fair enough. Okay then kid, what else is there? You were adventurous. You hated being cooped up in the house on weekends. You found your home life incredibly bland, boring. So you and your friends would try to get away every weekend. Camping, snowboarding, rafting, things like that. Your parents happily opened their wallets, glad you were interacting with your peers and doing outdoors activities. Am I wrong so far, kid?"

I nod no. Where is he going with this?

"You had siblings...older...sisters? No? Okay, brothers then. They were exceptional. They always did well. They now have high paying jobs, something like that."

How in the hell could he possibly know that?

"I do have older brothers." I admit. "Two. One's in the military. He's a first lieutenant now. He's being promoted at an exceptional rate. They think he might make general by thirty. The other is an aerospace engineer. They think he's a genius too."

"And you always felt like you were second-rate."

"It was like they were the yard stick, I was always being measured against them. No matter what I did, it was never good enough. My father was especially harsh. He used to even say it, used to compare me to my brothers. I hated it. It made me feel so inferior." I stop. Why am I telling him this? I don't even know this guy.

"Of course." Mikhal scratches the back of his head with his pen, then resumes playing with it. "I've seen it all too often."

"Seen what? And how did you know that stuff about me? I've barely said ten things to you all day."

"You fit the profile kid."

"The profile? What profile? What are you talking about?"

"You know we recruit our agents, right? Like how Calista brought you inside. Well, when we target someone, there are a number of factors we're looking for. Intelligence, ability, critical and analytical skills, things like that. But there are a lot of people who fit that bill. Because of the...delicate...nature of our existence, we can't just try to recruit all of those people. When we make a move...we try to target the people who would be most likely to accept our offer and join. They fit the profile. As you did."

"What profile would that be?"

"There are actually several. Yours, specifically, is the adventurous type, one who is overburdened by pressures and expectations placed on her by family, or society. You need to know where you stand in the world, so it's important for you to surround yourself with friends to confirm your identity."

"Is that so?" He sounds so sure of himself. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know why I really joined.

Mikhal now chewed on his pen. "Of course," he added, "in that particular case, that alone isn't enough to get you to agree to throw away your whole life. There has to be...some sort of event, some tragedy to disrupt your fragile little world."

I gasped. Damn. He's reading me like a book. I despise it.

Mikhal looks me in the eyes again. "Am I wrong?"

I look away from him, quickly. I feel my heartbeat accelerate. Why?

Mikhal looks away now too. His pen goes back to his left hand, darting in and out of his fingers. "If you're not comfortable talking about it, that's okay."

"My boyfriend died." I blurt out. "It's been...about two months now. My boyfriend died. And I'm the one who killed him."

Mikhal says nothing. His facial expression doesn't even change. Usually when I say that, people get this pitiful look on their faces. Something like "you poor thing" usually follows. Sometimes, they cry. Sometimes, I cried.

"What, that's it?" I ask. "You push and you push but now you have nothing to say?"

"Well, I can't really say anything. Usually, those kinds of statements are followed up with an explanation. I was waiting for the explanation."

He's controlling me. Pushing all my buttons in the right order, like a pianist.

"Well," I begin, "two months ago, my boyfriend wanted to go out to the movies with some of our friends. He called me up...he wanted me to go too. But I didn't want to go. I was tired and I had a headache and I didn't want to see the movie he was going to. He tried and he pleaded, the more he tried, the more annoyed he got. I held firm, and eventually he gave up and decided to go without me. But on the way...on the way...he was making a left turn in the intersection when some truck ran the red light and slammed right into the car. He died a few hours later."

"Were you driving the truck?"

"What?"

"Were you behind the wheel of the truck that hit your boyfriend's car? You said you killed him."

"You don't understand. If I hadn't been so damn stubborn...if I had just agreed to go to the movie...he would have had to take a different route. He would not have been turning into that intersection at that point in time. Things would have been different...and he would be alive. I was selfish...and that got him killed."

Mikhal is silent again. I keep expecting responses from him, I keep getting nothing.

He sees my frustration with his silence. "And what do you expect me to say to that? I'm sure you've heard 'it's not your fault' over and over again, me saying it isn't going to change anything. That's what you believe."

"And how does that fit into your little profile?"

"It's the tragic event that shattered your world, kid. Mixed up everything you thought you knew. But most importantly, it made you vulnerable. To be completely honest, had your boyfriend never died, or given another few months...you would have never agreed to becoming an agent."

His words are heavy, like books. I always assume that the pain I feel will never go away. That I will never fit into this world. That I was meant to be an outcast. What if I was wrong? What if, given time, I could have found some sense of normalcy? Did I make a mistake?

Why did I agree to this? I like the adventure...but I'm shortening my life. And I had to give up family and friends, cause them a lot of grief.

Maybe I'm being selfish again.

Mikhal leans back in his chair, visibly annoying the woman seated behind him. He speaks louder now. "Don't worry about it kid. This is the choice you made, and you can't go back and change that. All you can do now is accept your life the way it is. Anything else would be a waste. And, kid, you don't have enough time to be wasting it."

Just a few months ago, I didn't even want to think about the future. Live for now, I used to tell everyone. Deal with the future as it gets here. I didn't like to think about it, but once the future gets taken away from you, it does tend to come up quite a bit within your thoughts. I guess you don't really know what you have until you lose it.

Maybe my dad is thinking that same thought right now.

Mikhal spins his pen through his fingers, closing his eyes. "Maybe this is what you were meant to do after all. I mean, someone's gotta do it. You should probably try to get some sleep, kid. It's a long flight."

Somebody's gotta do it. That's what my mother used to say when she wanted me to take out the trash.

Not everybody gets to wear a disguise at a public cafe in the middle of God-knows where and carry a concealed gun in her case.

Yeah, I'm just that special.

My real hair is stuffed into this black wig that juts down from this silly black hat atop my head. I'm wearing a black dress with a bit of a low cut in the front, black gloves, and black high-heels. Normally, you'd think I'd stick out like a sore thumb. But given my surroundings, I'm actually quite natural.

I'm at a cafe in Beersheba. I still don't know where that is. I can tell you this - there's a lot of dirt. I mean, a lot of dirt. If you ever went to a beach and thought, "There isn't as much dirt here as I thought there would be", that's because it all ended up here. The street is dirt, and so is the sidewalk. It kicks up with the wind, blowing about lazily, as if it didn't have the energy or desire to move. The people sludge through it, almost being pushed around by it.

The cafe I'm at is small, cramped. The tables are dirty white, the silverware dull beige. There are a few other people in here, men and women, speaking a language I've never heard before. There is a muted TV near the front of the cafe, playing a soccer game. I'm seated in front of the windows that sit on both sides of the door in the middle of the front wall. Across the street, I can see a gas station. If you can call it that. Two dingy pumps, and a little shack that looks as if the Big Bad Wolf could blow it down with a sneeze. It's uninspired in every way possible. Yet, this is where a man will die. There are far greater places to die, I think.

But I'm not supposed to think. That's what Mikhal told me. He saw me as far as the train station. As I boarded the train, I remember him saying, in that gruff voice of his, "Kid," he says, "Kid, just do what you've been told. Point, click. It's as simple as that. Anything more...gets in the way." And he turns around and just kind of shuffles off, and a few seconds later, I can't even see him anymore. Like he just merged into the crowd, like dropping a rock in a stone garden. I start to wonder if he ever existed at all.

I check my watch. It's in countdown mode, and there are only three minutes left. More specifically, three minutes twenty eight seconds.

I get up from my table. No one notices me, no one cares. I suddenly realize the reason for my costume - my dingy blond locks would have stood out here in Dirt Town. I guess ghosts need to hide sometimes too. Near the back of the cafe, there's a staircase that leads up to the second level. There are a few more tables and chairs up there, plus the bathrooms. I go up the staircase, and head for the women's bathroom.

God, the smell.

I nearly pass out. There's dirt and grime and vomit and coffee and God only knows what else spattered on the floor and the walls. The scene horrifies me, and for a moment it freezes me. You know, like when you're driving, and you see some kitten spread all over the highway, and it's repulsive but you can't keep from staring. Actually, this place is worse. I think a dead kitten could only help things here. But that's not my concern. I walk into the second stall from the left, as it was written down on my orders.

You think the bathroom itself was bad? Try the stalls. But I won't get into that. On the back wall, above the toilet, people have written all sorts of creative things on the tiles. I'm curious, and I'd like to read them all. But that would keep me here longer than absolutely necessary. I look for one tile in particular, near the left my orders had said. It would have something specific written on it. After a second or two, I find it. Written in faded black pen is the message - "God is dead. Jesus is slain. Satan doesn't exist. Where will you go now? Free your mind. Visit Singapore."

I press down on the tile. Nothing happens. Okay, a little more pressure. It starts to give in, moving into the wall. I keep the pressure. Subsequently, the whole back wall, toilet and all, moves backwards, scraping the ground like stones on cement. A small crack is opened up between the sliding fixture and the rest of the wall. I squeeze through it.

There's another staircase, smaller, and barely lit through a red light bulb hanging overhead. I leave the toilet wall ajar - this won't take long - and ascend the stairs.

At the top of the staircase is a little room filled with boxes. It's very dusty - no one has been up here for years. The dust forms a fine gray layer over everything, as if someone came in with a bucket of gray paint and just spun around for a while. I make my way to the back of the room. There's a small handle sitting about head level on the back wall. Just like my orders said. I pull on it, and a small, circular section of the wall comes away with the handle. Sunlight bleeds into the room, just through that little hole. I check my watch. One minute eighteen seconds.

I open my case and begin to assemble the sniper rifle. Another thing Mikhal taught me. You know, they really are right when they say that you never learn the skills you really need in school. I can tell you the speeds of two passing trains given enough information, but no one ever taught me how to assemble a gun. Maybe I just didn't go to the right school.

I finish assembling my tool. I add a silencer at the end of the barrel, per my instructions. According to Mikhal, they will eventually figure out where the shot came from. The silencer will only delay things, and give me time to get out of there.

I poke my gun out of the little hole in the wall, and look into the scope. It's very powerful - I can see the street below as if I were standing on it. Well, I guess this is the kind of area where you'll want to have the best equipment there is.

Y'know, killing people.

I check my watch. Thirteen seconds. Won't be long now.

Sure enough, a dirty brown covered jeep pulls into the gas station across the street. It's part of an entourage, several similar jeeps behind it that pull over on the street. With my scope, I can see the driver. Just some guy I don't care about. The guy I do care about is in the backseat.

The jeep will pull into the gas station across the street. After approximately one minute, your target will exit the jeep from the left side. The instant you have a clean shot, take it.

How do we know he'll leave the jeep, I remember asking Mikhal. He said, "Don't worry, he will." That's funny isn't it? I mean, the people I work for have already pulled their strings and levers to decide this guy will die, and that's one thing, but apparently they're powerful enough to make him get out of his seat. On schedule too. That's really something.

There's movement within the jeep. Someone is getting out, on the left side. I bring my scope up. It's my target. I am talking about a living, breathing (for the moment) human being here, but to me, he's nothing more than my target. Just something I shoot at. Like the whiskey bottles.

"Point, click." Mikhal had said. "Anything more gets in the way."

I have his head perfectly centered in my crosshairs. My mind starts to burn, thoughts flocking to it. There's so many, they form this colossal symphony in my head. The noise begins to overwhelm me.

"Point, click."

My finger twitches. I feel the rifle kick back as it did when I was breaking bottles. There is a soft phiff, not the usual crash. Within my scope, I see my target. He twists sharply, like a seagull flailing out of the sky. You know, like after you hit one with a rock. He makes about half a turn before hitting the ground. It's a beautiful motion, really. His arms half spread out like wings, as he made a dive towards the earth. He's on the ground before anyone else - the people in the jeeps, or the people on the street - fully realize what had happened.

After the target has been hit, leave the rifle where it is and leave without being noticed. Walk, do not run. The quicker you do this, the easier it will be. Return to the train station and use your enclosed return tickets.

I put the rifle down against the wall, and turn around. The symphony is still playing. But that doesn't really matter now, I still have orders to follow. I leave the room as slowly as I entered it, proceed down the stairs, back into the bathroom stall. It still smells horrible. I know they told me to walk, but I can't help but to run out of the bathroom. You would too if you could smell it.

In the cafe, people are stirring - flocking to the windows, outside. They bob around, confused and scared. I cut through them softly and make my way outside. Yelling, screaming, more bobbing. No one notices me. They have their own problems.

I return to the train station without incident. Just as I arrive, my train starts boarding. I almost think it's coincidence, but nothing is with the people I work for. We're talking about people who can make a man get out of his seat, for God's sake. I'm sure this was timed as well. I get on my train, and pass through a few cars before finding one I liked. I found a seat near the window and took it.

I don't know how time was passing. My watch still read zero from the countdown, and I haven't bothered to switch it back to normal time. What I thought to be seconds might as well have been minutes. The people at the station seem to be moving through peanut butter; pushing, trudging, not getting anywhere. The air feels like a hot wet towel on my skin. The train begins to push it's way forward, and the station with all the slow motion people get smaller and smaller, diminishing into the dirt ocean.

"Is this seat taken?" A female voice asks. I turn to say no, and I'm surprised to lay my eyes upon Calista. She's wearing a dark black hat and sunglasses. Her curly black hair falls freely from the sides of the hat, like water. She's wearing dark black silk robes, and looking very natural in them. As if they belonged on her. I'm sure she looked that way in anything she wore.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Congratulations Miss Julie." She has a slight smile on her face. "You are now an agent of the organization."

"And I wasn't before?"

"Not exactly. You see, this first mission is actually part test, part training."

What the hell is going on here?

Calista reads the question from my face. "When we recruit new agents, we usually make sure that they are capable of performing their duties. Although a lot of people swear they can do it, not everyone can actually kill a person once given the gun and the target."

"You were testing me, this whole time?"

"You'd be surprised at how many people chicken out before they can pull the trigger."

"And what would have happened if I chickened out?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

Calista's words stab me like so much ice, sending little chills racing up my skin.

She adjusts her hat, pushing her hair back behind her shoulders, and thrusts her seat back a little, reclining it. "It was especially good that you went to Mikhal for help. All the new agents usually try to do this on their own, as if they had something to prove. But you, you're the first to actually ask someone for help. Very impressive. Shows good teamwork skills, and situation assessment. You will make a fine agent, Miss Julie."

So this was a test. It wasn't enough that I threw away my family, my friends, my familiarity. They needed to make sure I would actually do the things they asked.

Calista went on. "Tomorrow, I will accompany you to New York, where we'll check in at headquarters. There are a number of things to do, including getting you set up in an apartment. After that, there will be a very short training period, about two weeks, and then you'll be sent out on actual missions. Until then...try to enjoy yourself, Miss Julie." She brings up her purse and slightly unzips it, briefly showing me money - a lot of money. She then slips the purse under my seat. "You can buy plane tickets to anywhere in the world. Go somewhere fun."

Somewhere fun. She makes it sound so simple.

I almost go back to my window, but I hear my brain symphony start up again. There's something I have to know now.

"Calista...if this was a test mission...then the guy I just hit..."

Calista tossed her hair about her with a swift motion of her neck. "I'm sure the organization wanted him dead for whatever reasons. But mostly, it was to see if you'd actually do it."

So then that's it. We can talk about politics, terrorism, corruption, whatever, but when you bottom-line it, this poor sucker died to get me wet behind the ears.

It's almost enough to get a smile out of me, but instead I turn back to my window, my ocean of dirt.

Not everybody gets to kill a man.

I wouldn't call it a unique sensation, but it is kind of different. I mean, it's sort of like winning a game. You know that feeling when you beat somebody at something, like checkers. You know, superiority. That's all winning is anyhow, a feeling of superiority. This is kind of like that, only exaggerated. We played a game. I won, and Mr. Target is dead. It feels good, really. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some kind of sick freak. Don't think I'm going to start picking off puppies and grandmothers just for the hell of it. All I'm saying is, don't knock it until you try it.

So I'm sitting in the church where the funeral was held yesterday. The first row of pews, in case you were wondering. Julie Cantrell's picture is still up on the altar, surrounded by red and white roses. You know, she really wasn't all that bad looking. Dingy hair, maybe, just like mine, but she had her good qualities. She had a nice smile.

It's sort of a half smile though. You can see that, although she's smiling for the picture, she's not really happy. She doesn't really have a reason not to be. She has a loving family, her needs are taken care of, she has friends, security, all that jazz. But her world is fragile. Like a bird's nest atop a tree branch. It sits now, but all it takes is a gust of wind strong to knock it down, send it all tumbling down, down straight to earth, and maybe even beyond. The sticks and leaves all fall apart, separating on impact. If there are eggs in there, maybe they break too.

What's funny about the world though is that those sticks and leaves will tumble and fuss about for a while before a new bird comes along, picks them up, and makes a nest of her own. She'll build it in some shaky little tree branch God knows where, and for a while, things will be okay.

Foosh, crash. Repeat.

I killed a man today. It didn't take much. Just move my finger a little bit, and down he went. I can still see the bullet, zooming in on him like a hummingbird on its way to decimate a flower. Zip, there it goes, and before you know it, it's all over. Foosh, crash.

I killed a man today. Someone's son. Maybe someone's husband. Maybe someone's brother, someone's lover, someone's friend, someone's end. Yesterday, he was there, today he is not. Gone, to wherever ghosts go, and it's definitely not some cafe in France. Maybe he's having a drink with Julie Cantrell's old boyfriend right now. They could form a club. "The Club for Those Killed by Dingy Blondes."

I killed a man today. I wonder if he'll get a funeral. I wonder if it'll be like Julie Cantrell's. Will they have it in a church? With everyone will be dressed in black, silently thinking. Maybe the women will be crying. Maybe his mother will, at one point, be so overcome with grief that she has to run out of the church so she can bawl without drawing attention to herself. Then they'll carry his body out of the church and go dump it in the ground somewhere. Probably without any twisting this time. Or maybe they'll just burn it. Up in smoke, to go float around with the other clouds. Maybe it'll join up with some fluffy nimbus cloud somewhere, and a small boy in Beersheba will tug on his mother's arm, point at the sky and say, "Look mommy, it looks like a seagull."

I killed a man today. But you know what? I'm okay with that. Really.

Sticks and leaves upon the ground. They can only blow around for so long, lost and alone, before they get picked up and made into a new nest.

You might think I've made a mistake. You might think I'm throwing my life away. You might even call me foolish.

But what do you know? You're dead, Julie Cantrell.

The church doors open behind me. Two young girls, and a guy enter. The guy is carrying roses, red and white. Friends of the deceased. My cue to leave.

I stand up and begin to make my way out of the church. I pass the trio on my way out. I don't look at them, but one of them, one of the girls, stops anyway. "Excuse me," she says, "were you a friend of Julie's?"

I stop - I turn my head towards them, but I don't face them. "No, I didn't know her. I'm new here, and I'm just passing through."

I leave the church. The doors slam closed behind me, and as they do, I hear a fluttering sound above. A blue jay, which was sitting atop the roof, was apparently startled by the noise. She took to the sky, pumping her wings like water as she sailed up into the gray sky. I watch until she's almost out of sight, this blue speck against the blank canvas. I spread my arms out wide as I glide down the church stairs, close my eyes and feel the wind slipping through my hair.