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me,” I said, attempting to keep alarm from my voice, while my thumb activated the camera feature.
    The nun fidgeted, glanced back into Charlie’s cell, then down the hall. When she looked at me, I snapped her photo. Tiny divots pocked her cheeks as if she’d suffered from terrible acne. The veil stretched across her forehead and the creases at her eyes gave the impression that she was the one with cancer rather than Charlie.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked before she could recover.
    The nun looked as though I’d taken something personal rather than a simple picture. Her eyelids twitched and eyes filled with tears.
    â€œDon’t take him,” she said, and turned and ran.
    I swore as I sent the image on to the general along with a message, What do we do with possible security leaks?
    Charlie didn’t look over when I entered. He stared at the ceiling and fingered the injection site of the IV that trailed up to the bag of fluid behind him.
    â€œSister Angelica,” he said. “When she arrived, she still trembled from withdrawal. But she’s a good woman and a good nun. The cloth is a haven both for those who care too deeply and those who have been too tempted by worldly sin.”
    â€œShe seems aware that you might be leaving here,” I accused.
    â€œShe won’t tell anyone.”
    â€œYou just implied to me she was a drug addict.”
    â€œStill is. Addictions don’t disappear. But she’s a nun and no one would believe her anyways.” Charlie regarded me. “However, Colonel Kurzow, I haven’t given you my decision.” He held up a restraining palm. “Four days ago, I had twenty to thirty years to live. Three days ago that was reduced to six months, or so. Allow me some time to mourn my loss of life.”
    I shifted uncomfortably and suddenly felt so tired. I wondered how doctors did it. How did they deliver these diagnoses? I tried not to care. This was simply a man who was dying, and he could help others by forgoing a few months, or so, of life. The decision from my perspective was simple. If necessary, I’d shoot myself to prove my point. Why not? The guy could hardly say no with my brains blown out over his door.
    â€œThose who know about my disease come to me and say, fight it,” he continued. “You can do it. Come on. Miracles happen every day.” He flushed. “I hated them—there is dignity in going quietly without a fight, because it’s not a battle you can win or lose. Right?” He looked up and he must not have seen any agreement in my eyes because he looked away and went on. “The outcome is determined even if we don’t know it yet. I will treat this cancer and see how far that takes me, but I will not rage against it. It is a part of my body overexcited about growing.” He shook his head. “But what you’re asking, that is quitting. I won’t throw the race, either.” His chin lifted suddenly and I was caught by the fire in his eyes. “Life is sacred, Christine. I could never be that example to the other monks and nuns.”
    I had the years of army-speak to thank for making my tone crisp: “You will die of a disease, sir; no one will know.”
    â€œI will know.”
    â€œThere’s a hundred percent chance you will die of your pancreatic cancer, and it’s a painful death. That death will happen; it is inevitable. Your friends will mourn your passing, but it will have little impact besides.” I managed to keep the threatening quaver from my voice. “This is something you can change. By going terminal, you have the power to save eleven lives. You’re an expert on Gnosticism. We need your help now.”
    â€œHow convenient.” His eyes smoldered, and I could see him reaching for reasons, hurriedly erecting shields to block my executioner’s axe.
    â€œWe didn’t know we needed you until today.”
    He squinted as if