The transition from the scorching, endless beige horizon of Kuwait to the lush, rain-slicked streets of Denver felt less like travel and more like a hallucination. For nine months, my world had been defined by the smell of diesel, burning trash, and the relentless, suffocating heat that stuck to the back of your throat. Now, sitting in the back of an Uber, the air conditioning hummed a soft lullaby, and the world outside the window was impossibly green.
My hands, calloused and rough, gripped the strap of my duffel bag until my knuckles turned white. I checked my phone for the third time in ten minutes. No reply. The screen remained dark, reflecting my own tired eyes—eyes that had spent the last 270 days scanning perimeters, looking for threats in the sand.
