Bombs will fall. Some will die. Perhaps twenty. With 150,000 people in the city, my chances are good. But, of course, I put myself in harm’s way, travelling to the front-line and courting danger. So, my risk is, let’s say, one in 50,000. I do, I thrive on danger. There’s a rush to it, when you feel the wind from the angel’s wings on your cheek. When you turn your cape and the horns stab empty air. Some might say I’m a conflict junkie. That addiction perhaps reduces my odds to one in 10,000. Some will die. But not me.