I could hear my husband talking to someone in the garage. The other man was distinctly British. “Is your computer on, Honey?” Mike asked as he opened the laundry room door. “Yes, it is,” I said, my hands greasy from de-boning a chicken. I sat at the table, our kitchen only half-cleaned-up from dinner as a pleasant sixty-something Brit stepped into our kitchen. The men marched into our paper-strewn family room. I had battled for several intense days planning a trip. I joined them in the war zone as we circled the computer, my hands almost dripping with grease. I … Continue reading The Battle Zone