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  • Early on the morning of December 27th 2007 I received a text.
    I was in bed with my wife, in my parent's basement, in a small town in Wyoming. I still had an old flip phone.

    The text was from my agent, James, and it said: BHUTTO IS DEAD

    Fuck.
    Fuck.
    Fuck.
    Fuck.
    Fuck.

    My stomach shrunk and started to ache.

    2 hours later I went into the badlands outside of town with my high school friend Hunter Nielson. We shot beer cans with .22s, a Christmas holiday tradition at my house. Goddamned suicide bombers.

    The next day I was on a flight to Islamabad for the The New Yorker magazine. Headed into suicide bomber world headquarters.
    A day after that I was at Bhutto's grave in Larkana.

    Waves of people came and chanted.
    Waves of people came and cried.
    Waves of people came and prayed.

    I loved the smell of the roses piled 3 feet high on the marble floor over her grave.
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