[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/180407/59ebfd6236b5bc057788244514943c28.png[/img][/center]
[right][hr][color=gray][b]
September 15, 1995 [/b]
Pacific Ocean, 110 miles west of Costa Rica [/color][hr][/right]
[indent] 
Juliet Fournier looked at her watch. While Daniel’s unease was understandable, they hadn’t quite hit the mark of four hours yet. Though Jules wished they had. Then again, Jules wished that she hadn’t been placed on this stupid assignment in the first place. As an [i]actual[/i] journalist she didn’t want to take pictures in a helicopter of some boring lines drawn in the sand centuries upon centuries ago. But apparently, her editor had suggested that she go with Daniel off to Peru to do it. “You’re the best photographer we have on staff.” He said, as a way of trying to ensure that it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Then again, New Scientist wasn’t exactly the job she thought she would be doing at this point in her life. She wanted to be like her heroes – Catherine Leroy and Georgette Meyer – covering the gruesome and politically relevant, writing commentary that meant something. 

Perhaps this was all a sign. Like god drawing actual lines in the sand to tell her to admit she was fed up with it and quit working for the magazine. 

“See this is why normal people wear watches. To tell time.” She sighed, eyes on her watch. “If you must know, it’s only been three.”

She returned her sight to the book she had been reading: the English rendition of Jean Baudrillard’s war essays on The Gulf War aptly titled [i]The Gulf War Did Not Take Place[/i].[/indent]