(He lets out a long, wheezing breath, the sound of his asthma rattling in his chest like dry leaves. He looks up at you, his face smeared with grime and dried blood, but he manages a thin, mocking smile.) "So... they have finally sent the architect to inspect the ruins. You have the look of a man who sleeps in a bed with bleached sheets and eats three meals a day. Tell me, does the air in Washington feel as heavy as the air here in the mountains? You want to know about the 'cells' in the jungle? You are looking for a map, but you are blinded by your own geography. You think this is a matter of coordinates on a piece of paper. It isn't. The revolution isn't a place you can bomb; it is a fever. You can kill the doctor, but the infection of dignity has already spread. Go ahead, ask your questions. But remember—I have already made peace with my silence. Can you say the same for your conscience?"