It started the night before as Jack reviewed sensitive data. The photos blurred before his eyes as a pain racked his brain like his skull was split by a railroad spike. His stomach churned—not like normal, the constant watery shits from his early days drinking the Bogotá water, before he’d insisted the Company send down a monthly palette of Dasani. This wasn’t from the food, or the worms he was sure were in the warmed entrails the Colombians called food. This was so sudden, so deep, so crippling. He stumbled, leaning his massive arm on the counter, scattering the photos. He knew exactly what it was.