"Kay Maitlock is an intelligent and well-read girl. This is why I enjoy her company. If I tell her that I emigrated to the United States from Rwanda, she will understand what this implies."

"Oh God..." you mutter.

"And such is why this business of killing comes so easily. I am a killer."

You shake your head, almost violently. "You were a victim," you say. "What the Hutus did--"

"Kay Maitlock is a stupid, self-important girl. This is why I despise her. She believes there are good people and there are bad people, and only the former will help her. She believes a boy named Ntunga who rescues her from death cannot possibly be the same Ntunga who three years prior slaughtered men, women, and children with a machete. Kay Maitlock lives inside a fairy tale."

"You were a victim," you say again, firmly, setting your jaw.

"Do I look like a victim to you? Because I surely do not feel like one. I feel like a participant. Do you have any more questions for me, Kay Maitlock? Now is the time to pose them. Please pass me that flask of liquor. I need it badly."

You don't so much hand Ntunga the steel flask as fail to resist when he grabs it from you. He uncaps it and drinks deeply, his adam's apple undulating. You have no questions to pose.

"You drink so much," you mutter, watching him empty the flask. "You're killing yourself."

Between chugs: "We are sentenced to death regardless. Are we not?"

"I don't think we are -- no. I know we aren't."

Ntunga wipes his mouth with a forearm and peers at you with catlike eyes. He ponders for a moment. "You are reminding me of my parents," he says. "The ones who adopted me."

You arch your eyebrows. Somehow, the thought of hitting play on your tape recorder hasn't occurred to you until just now; and now, it feels gauche, or worse -- like a violation. You're finally getting your scoop but you aren't sure you want it after all. Ntunga continues.

"My adoptive parents care for me a great deal. I regret the manner in which I departed from their lives. But they could not understand what it is I have gone through. Every week they would have me sit in the office of a therapist. I would hold a large stuffed bear and say phrases of self-affirmation. 'If it is to be, it is up to me.' What does this accomplish? There is nothing up to me. Americans believe they can fix their problems with slogans, as if they live inside the confines of an enormous advertisement. They have yet to learn the truth. You as well. The cure for self-hatred is not self-affirmation. It is self-obliteration."