Rutger stood at the curb, watching the cab drive away.  It was an odd place for a meeting, but odd usually worked for such clandestine activities.  The Golden Arches loomed over him, the glow illuminating his section of the street like yellow daylight.  Across the road was a battered and bruised Motel 6 that he assumed constituted the bulk of customers for this establishment.  It hunched over the little road that fed it customers, while turning its back to the main road and the world beyond.

Cars passed him, drivers not giving him a first glance—much less a second—each wrapped in their cocoon of metal and frustration.  He would feel sorry for these people, but Americans were exceedingly good at making themselves miserable.  And yet, they also know how to laugh—e...

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