By David Crane defrev (at) gmail (dot) com January 13, 2010 It’s the middle of the night, and I’m laying prone in the woods inside a foreign country called Drok as God-only-knows-how-many–5?–10?–20?–armed men search for me with lights and dogs. If they capture me, I’m in a world of hurt. On the plus side, I’m well hidden, I’ve got my …
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