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to my father’s aid, but she was no more a fighter than he was.  I watched through the slats in the closet door, terrified, as the men in black mercilessly killed my parents.  I stuffed my small fist in my mouth, and bit down until I tasted blood, willing myself not to scream out loud.  I wanted to close my eyes against the carnage.  Instead, I sat frozen, with my eyes open so wide that they began to water, producing tears even before my brain could process what was going on.
    My parents’ deaths had been quick.  One cold metal bullet to the side of my father’s head was all it took to steal the life of the man whose lap I curled up in every night before bed so he could tell me a story; the man who brought me cold milk and warm cinnamon sugar cookies when I had nightmares; the man whose warm, dark brown eyes and toothy smile lit up the room every time my mother walked in.
    My poor mother, she never stood a chance.  Before she could even reach my father, a man in black grabbed her from behind.  With one flick of his wrist, a gaping wound appeared across her throat.  The man in black tossed her carelessly next to my father’s crumpled form, like she was trash.
    I was murderous.  The feelings overwhelmed me, stirring in my stomach and rising like bile in my throat; overwhelmed me.  Then the horrible, high-pitched shrieking started; it filled my ears, suffocating all of the coherent thoughts in my brain.
    I am still not sure if it was the cold, calculated murder of my father, or the careless disposal of my mother – probably both – but I felt something inside of me snap.  One minute, I was hiding in the closet with the silk of my mother’s long dresses pulled tight around my face, like curtains trying to block out the brutal scene in the bedroom.  The next, I was sitting in the outer room of our hotel suite, surrounded by broken furniture, shattered glass, and the bodies of the men in black.  They were all dead.
    The heavy black clouds in the night sky matched the darkness I felt building inside me.  The rain began to fall through the now-broken windows in fat drops; they came down slowly at first but it wasn’t long before the drops blended together, resembling streams of water falling from the sky.  The rainwater was cold – a sharp contrast to the hot tears pouring from my eyes.
    I don’t know how long I sat there in the rain before a large, blonde man rushed through the open door to the hotel room.  I recognized him from meetings with my father, but I couldn’t remember his name.  He was a large man, with broad shoulders, hair that was cut short, and a tanned lined face from spending time outside over the years.
    The blonde man carried a large gun slung over one shoulder, and several smaller ones were tucked at his waist.  An entire team of men clamored through the doorway after him.  He held up one of his hands, indicating for the men to stay back.  He approached me slowly, hesitantly.  He was greater than an arms distance away when he tentatively extended one of his large, gloved hands toward me; I had seen people do the same thing with wounded animals.
    “Natalia?” he asked in a soft voice.  I couldn’t find the energy to even nod my head, I just stared blankly.  “Natalia,” he repeated.  “My name is Danbury McDonough.  Do you remember me?  I’m friends with your daddy.”  I rewarded him with another of my blank stares.  “Natalia, are you hurt?”  He took my silence as an indication that I was not.
    He knelt down next to me, and gently untangled my fingers from the folds of my dress.  Without thinking, I threw my arms around his neck.  He patted me awkwardly on the back, unsure how to react.  I dug my small fingers into his shoulders, scared to let go.  He carefully picked me up.
    “You’re freezing,” he commented, hugging me close and trying to warm me with his own body heat.  I started shaking, actually feeling the cold for the first time.  He carried me