"Why the fuck should I trust you?" My voice cracked on the last word. I was stressed. Exhausted. More than a little annoyed. This morning, I was writing a brief from the comfort of my home office, cosseted high above 6th Ave in a generous one-bedroom with den--the prerogatives and pleasures of life as a go-to service partner. Now, I was standing ankle-deep in cow shit and mud, listening to a speech from some besuited muscle who looked just on the wrong side of a line between "Secret Service" & "Die Hard With a Vengance" stunt double.

"Because you don't have any other choice. Because rach is alive. And because there are others like you and me, out there." He gestured toward the horizon just as the whirring of a chopper approaching low over the ridgeline interrupted our little Euthyphro moment. I shouted over the din: "Am I going to make it out of this alive?" He flashed a smile: "Worry about whether you have a life worth living."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4581545&forum_id=2#40584167)