Caracas, Venezuela.
Scott Foster was lying on the bed in the main room of the house he had rented six months ago in the Altamira urbanization of the Venezuelan capital. He had just woken up and was watching the news of the bombings on the thirty-two-inch television on the cabinet in front of his bed and he thought that everything was getting really dangerous in the world. It was six o'clock in the morning. He seldom thought about the fact that he was in an unknown country so as not to fall into the melancholy caused by being away from his family and his nation, which he served faithfully since joining the army. But this morning was different; he had to think about his country, about the attacks they were doing and the damage they were causing him, and not be there to help. When he began h
