"CARRIE JOHNSTONE KILLED IN ACTION" was written in big bold letters on the front page of the Bay Guardian. The smaller text below reads: “DHS kidnapping informant killed in Iraq.” I'd be lying if I said a smile didn't crack my face the moment I read those words, but no matter what problem presents itself, death is never a good solution. Well, at least one that leaves both parties satisfied. The newsstand I was there and I had a clear vision of the new Bay Bridge, whose construction had been approved only 2 years after the terrorist attack that devastated San Francisco and transformed the old bridge into a pile of metal and pain. It symbolized the transition to a new era, where the Department of Homeland Security was given every right to spy on whatever weird crap was going on in computers and used the old "catch terrorists and maintain your own security" excuse to justify their actions. In hindsight, I wouldn't have been so pissed off if I hadn't been kidnapped and held in prison by those same people. Wrong place, wrong time, was what I kept telling myself, but everyone involved was to blame, including Carrie Johnstone. Somehow, holding a bunch of random innocents in prison and interrogating them for the passwords to their phones and electronic devices was how DHS decided to investigate the attacks. Ultimately, he turned on them, but for a year, much of the attack's death toll was on Treasure Island, while their families expected them to be at the bottom of a river, dead. I was only there for a few days, but it changed my life. They threatened me if I told anyone, and I lived in paranoia knowing that one word I said about it would reach their ears, b... middle of paper...don't call yourself for that witch.. .well, yeah, I kind of am, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After everything that happened, it's the least I could do. Even though we didn't exactly end up on good terms last time, I still care.” There was a long moment of silence again, but this time it wasn't about either of them being sure what to say. I looked at my watch. 5.32pm. “Do you want to talk about it over a burrito?” I finally asked. Again, no response for a second or so. “You know,” she replied. “Do you want me to bring the pepper spray?” “Of course. No burrito is complete without it.” A huge smile suddenly appeared as I stood up and ran out the door. I could have spent the night playing video games and answering emails like I have been doing for the past few weeks, but I had an appointment. After dealing with all the media and fans, the fatally spicy burritos seemed like heaven.