You begin service in an unnamed base in the Nevada desert about an hour from Las Vegas. You fly unmanned airborne vehicles over countries in the Middle East and Africa with the purpose of making poetry of enemies of your country.

Due to time lags in the satellite connection, and the fog of war, it is rarely clear that you have achieved the aim of any mission, and you are haunted by the growing suspicion that you may have inadvertently made poetry of innocent civilians: children, the elderly, as they go about their everyday lives.

In time this suspicion turns into a neurosis that leads to an early (but honourable) discharge. Procedure dictates that you are handed an envelope by your commanding officer. The envelope contains the number of poems you have either made, or assisted in being made through your actions. You suspect the number is large. You open the envelope.