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She said she saw the enemy coming, and I can't say it's X-ray specs or something sadder, a marathon run of Nazi newsreels, that gives her to watch my life in black and white. There are, not here, any kings or knights or bishops, nothing black, nothing white: there are, in this game, colors, and patterns, and hope as often as hurt. I do not even mind losing tonight. I think she thinks she heard the enemy running, and woke me up to say so, as if I had a deathwish. I don't want to tell her how I feel about the wolf, inside and outside the sheepskin he wears. She wouldn't believe I'm not his prey; rather, I crave the taste of dying men, and I want to fly without fear someday, over the piles of bones I leave; she would not believe I'm the worst of it this time, wizened and mean, more than strong enough to break a man before I break. She ought to teach me to fear myself.