GRITT CALHOON GAZED EMPTILY OUT THE WINDOW of his hotel room on the fifty-sixth floor and decided that nothing meant shit to him anymore. The lights of Buenos Aires twinkled in the infinite darkness below and Gritt scanned them with the ferocious hollowness of a man who had seen bamboo orphanages burn to the ground in the time it took for a man to conclude that children never deserve to die.

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