Crowbar Girl

By Robert C Roman

Lane Lake didn't want to be a hero. She just wanted to fix up her old project jeep. But when supernatural creatures show up and threaten her friends, it's time to put on her nomex, pick up her crowbar, and get to work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert C Roman
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223193579

Book preview

Fall Semester

Lane

Lane swore under her breath. The pranks were getting worse. This one might actually kill her.

Just under a ton of Jeep pressed down on her. Somehow the idiots had cut the lines to the hydraulic lift. They'd also gotten something to explode. The explosion had knocked at least two of the jack stands over. One leaned against her shoulder. Another rested against her lower leg. Since the Jeep wasn't tipped sideways, the other pair had probably fallen as well.

All that had kept Lane from being a red splotch on the motor pool floor were quick reactions and twice daily workouts. The first had flung the arc welder away from her and got her hands under the frame of the falling Jeep. The second had meant that she was going to have some really impressive bruises on her triceps, instead of having the welding mask driven into her face.

That welding mask protected her face from the sparks that flew when she tossed the arc welding rod away. It kept her eyes from being sprayed with the grit she could feel coating her arms. Without the arc from the welder, it was currently blinding her.

Still, blind, trapped and alive was better than sighted, trapped and dead. Maybe the idiots could make themselves useful.

OK, this isn't funny. Get over and help me move this thing.

Lane's voice echoed strangely, like one of the big garage doors was partially open. Trapped beneath the body and frame of the Jeep, welding mask blinding her, she couldn't see for herself. Her tormenters certainly weren't making themselves useful. Maybe they didn't think they could move the Jeep.

Bring the rolling jack. Bring my big pry bar. Bring your lazy butts over here and give me a hand!

No response. The idiots realized their prank had backfired and run. That was par for the course.

When Mr. Josephs let her start working on her 'senior project' in the school's motor pool, she'd had the garage to herself. Within a few weeks, half a dozen useless twits had started showing up. The headmistress had dubbed the class 'Vehicle Maintenance'. It qualified as an Industrial Arts class.

Every student at Martin Van Buren High school had to take at least one year of Industrial Arts. The girls with steady hands who could do math took Drafting. The geeks took Computer Repair. The ones who wanted to be housewives took Home Economics. That left Keyboarding and now Vehicle Maintenance. Of course Lane's project got the ones who thought they might break a nail on the keyboard.

Technically none of the other girls were working on Lane's project. They were in the Garage to learn how to do basic maintenance on a car. Maybe they would learn to avoid getting ripped off too bad when they took their cars in for repairs. They weren't about to take on the complete rebuild of a rusted out World War Two era Jeep. All five of the other girls had seen the first of Mr. Joseph's demonstrations and started whining. Of course, instead of asking Lane for help, they'd decided to start pulling pranks.

They salted her water bottle. They coated her tools with oil. They coated her shoelaces with nail polish while she was under the jeep. Lane lost track of how many pranks they pulled. All stupid. Most dangerous. None of the girls realized. Lane doubted any of them cared. Now they'd come very close to killing her. Five debutantes were going to going to need their noses rebuilt. Their rich daddies could send her a bill.

First, though, Lane needed to get out from under the Jeep. She tried to pull her legs up. They weren't pinned. Something was keeping the weight of the Jeep off of them. She didn't have enough clearance to pull her knees up though. If she did, she was pretty sure she could lift the frame long enough to roll out from under it.

Maybe I can convince Coach Roberts to hook this to the leg press in the weight room.

Her mutter didn't get any more response than calling out had. Mr. Josephs was probably chasing the girls down. He wouldn't leave her here under the Jeep, but she hadn't told him she was working on it today. She'd signed the log, signed out the equipment, and started working. She'd heard him gather up his tools and leave. His schedule had him working on the school's front gate today. If the idiots hadn't set off their little bomb, he wouldn't have come back until time for class.

It wasn't quite class time yet. Lane wondered how the idiots had gotten into the garage. Lane was pretty good about locking it. Mr. Joseph was fanatic about it. He was the only teacher Lane never saw carrying one of the Headmistress' 'Security Briefing' folders. That meant the idiots had broken into the garage somehow. None of them could change a tire, but one of them had learned to pick locks.

Again, that was about par for the course.

Lane blinked, but it was still pitch black behind her welding mask. At least her bun was cushioning the back of her head. One of the class would look good when they all got called before the headmistress for fighting.

Thoughts of beating up idiots weren't getting her free. She tried to shake the mask off of her head to start with. She couldn't move far enough in either direction. It would keep her eyes from being poked out, at least. Lane took a deep breath, let it out, followed it with a series of quick breaths, pumping herself up.

A cry wrenched its way out of her as she pushed upward, hard earned muscles straining against the weight of the old steel. It moved, albeit slowly at first. After a few inches, the angle improved and the Jeep moved faster. Lane pulled her legs up again. This time they didn't hit the frame. She realized she wouldn’t be able to hold the Jeep up with her arms long enough to get a jack stand upright. She crunched, her knees pulling up to her chest, the Nomex of her coverall ripping against the frame of the jeep. Her arms gave way, and the Jeep dropped.

The frame hit the soles of her work boots, barely catching. Now she was caught under the old Jeep with her knees around her ears. Getting out was suddenly even more important. Not only was it possible that her feet could slip, but if someone walked in, the jokes about how much she loved the old hulk would get even worse.

Carefully, millimeter by millimeter, she wiggled her feet forward until the weight of the Jeep rested firmly on the middle of her boots. She heard bits of rubber bouncing off the welding mask and decided for the moment to leave it on. She'd take it off when she was out from under the fine shower of rust that came down every time she worked on the old Jeep. Once her feet were set, she took a moment to center herself. Again she did the breathing trick, one long breath followed by three short ones.

This time the cry was as much anger as effort and pain. The jeep weighed less than Lane's record press, but it wasn't a set of blank plates hooked to a nice safe sled. It was a genuine antique, one she had put weeks of work into finding, bringing back to the Marten Van Buren campus, and taking apart. It was also a ton of rusty, oddly shaped metal now airborne in a low arc.

Lane rolled frantically, hoping she'd be far enough away when the Jeep landed. She didn't stop when she heard the frame hit the floor. She'd shoved it at least four feet in the air; it might bounce before it stopped moving. She hit the garage door and used the corrugation to scramble up. The echoes of the Jeep crashing down quieted, and Lane winced as she heard the welds she had been working on give way.

Broken noses were just an appetizer. The idiots were about to learn broken fingers hurt more than broken fingernails.

Lane slapped the welding mask up, expecting to see the wreckage of her Jeep and some clue as to which way the idiots had run. Instead, she peered into gloom that was nearly as dark as it had been with the mask on. Something was wrong. The electric had gone out, that much was clear, but the garage doors were secured against break-ins, not against daylight.

A spike of pain drove through Lane's head from ear to ear. She swore she heard someone calling her, a voice she almost but couldn't quite recognize. A moment later the pain was gone as if it had never been, the mystery voice replaced by the screaming of the idiot brigade, muffled by the garage doors. Shaking her head to clear it, Lane leapt for the back door. She grabbed her long hooked pry bar, one thought in her mind as her shoulder hit the emergency bar on the fire door.

If the idiots weren't in trouble yet, they were about to be.

SMOKY CLOUDS FILLED the sky, and fiery debris rained down through the smoke, giving the campus a hellish look. Lane whipped around the corner, bringing the outside of the big garage doors into view. Shocked, she kept moving forward even as her mind registered what her eyes showed her.

Four of the idiots cowered against the garage doors. They hid their eyes from the huge dogs that hunched in front of them, tearing at something on the ground. The fifth pointed a petite mace can at the dogs, pressing the nozzle and waving it back and forth. Since she was looking away from whatever the dogs were tearing at, she wasn't hitting much, but at least she was doing something.

It took Lane a moment to register how big and bulky the dogs were. When she did, she realized they couldn't be dogs. At that size, the way they were hunched over, they must be some kind of bear. She still sprinted toward them. Maybe if she made enough noise, startled the bears enough, they would run away.

One of them raised its head, and for a moment panic and rage warred in Lane. The thing had a long, canine muzzle. Tiny scales, red and gold, covered the snout. Horns jutted from above eerily human eyes. Dangling from teeth that would put any crocodile to shame was the sleeve of a jumpsuit, an arm bone sticking out. The thing tossed its head back and the arm whipped up into the air. Caught it, gulping it down.

A green Nomex jumpsuit, just like Lane's.

Lane didn't have a lot of friends. At just over two meters tall, she stood out too much to fit in with the popular girls. She wasn't smart enough to be a geek. She wasn't thin or pretty enough to be one of the budding models. Mr. Josephs didn’t care about any of that. She knew how to work hard and wasn't afraid of getting dirty. The fact that she thought old cars were cool was just gravy as far as he was concerned. He'd been a surrogate father to her, one her mother had never seen fit to provide.

Now this bear-dog-lizard-bull thing was gulping down one of his arms.

Lane's welding mask muffled her scream of rage. It slammed down over her face as her pry bar impacted with the head of the bear-dog, driven by a two-handed overhead swing. Weeks of welding practice had her leaping away from the searing light that erupted from the thing's shattered skull. The other bear-dog's jaws snapped shut where Lane's hands had just been. Teeth crunched on the case-hardened iron of her crowbar instead. The bear-dog backpedaled, spitting and snapping with a sputtering growl as light spat from its jaws. Never one to hesitate, Lane swung again, the split, flat end of the pry bar catching the staggered bear-dog in the chest. Its sputtered growl became a howl of pain as light erupted from the hole burning its way into its chest. Lane looked to the first bear-dog, but it was burning away like living flash paper. Only its hindquarters remained, and they seared themselves to dust as Lane watched. Lying in the dusted remains of the bear-dog's front half was Mr. Josephs' bloody arm, hand still attached.

Lane dropped to her knees next to him, slamming her welding hood up the moment the second bear-dog burned itself out. She regretted it immediately. The idiot with the pepper spray had saturated the area, and Lane's eyes were streaming as she knelt next to her mentor.

Her head snapped up as he drew a long, shuddering breath, which came back out as a scream. His shoulder twitched like he was trying to lever himself up with the remains of his arm, and another scream tore itself from his throat. Lane forced him back down, her streaming eyes tracking to the idiots by the door.

Do any of you know first aid? She barked out. One of the girls, the one with the pepper spray, turned to look at Lane.

I do. Her voice was a squeak, leached of her normal confidence.

Get over here and help me, Carol. One of you other idiots get on your cells and dial nine-one-one. The rest of you get over to the nurse's office and get Ms. Williams. Now! Move it!

Carol began moving toward Mr. Josephs, then froze. Her arm, shaking, came up to point behind Lane. Lane heard a horrible growling sound behind her, and her hand reached out to where she'd dropped her pry bar.

Look out! Screamed Carol, and Lane spun, all the power of her hips twisting her body, whipping the pry bar around, driving it toward the new threat. It should have been too late. Lane saw the open mouth lunging toward her face, felt the hot, fetid breath of the bear-dog as it came at her. Just before it tore her face off, something ricocheted off the pavement beneath it, slamming into its lower jaw and snapping its mouth shut. In the next instant, the bottom of the bear-dog's jaw slammed Lane's welding mask back down again, and her pry bar impacted with its hindquarters with a sickening crunch.

This time Lane couldn't leap away. The weight of the bear-dog drove her into the ground. Only her hair, curled up into a thick bun, kept her from cracking her skull open on the pavement when she hit. The bear-dog snapped at her once more, tearing long gashes into the base of her welding hood, but unable to quite reach her before the searing light burned it away.

Fearing another of the things, Lane rolled to her feet. Hot dust cascaded from her Nomex. She did a quick check, but nothing felt badly broken or burned. Looking at the idiots, Lane saw that Carol had recovered and was looking over Mr. Josephs, who had lapsed unconscious again. One of the other idiots was staring blindly at Lane, her mouth moving, making a spluttering buh, buh, buh sound. Lane shook her head to clear the slight ringing from her recent impact with the pavement. Lacking anyone to look to for guidance, she focused on Carol.

Can we move him inside?

He needs a tourniquet or he's going to bleed to death.

Lane strode over to the four girls who were still clustered by the door. Reaching down, she pulled the thin leather strap belt off the one girl, spinning her around and knocking her to the ground in the process.

One of you four call nine-one-one, I said. All of you, get up. I'm getting Mr. Josephs inside where it's safe, then I'm going for the nurse. You idiots would just get yourself eaten if there are any more of these things around.

Her voice, barking out commands, seemed to shake the girls out of their shocked silence. Either that or the threat of being left for the bear-dogs woke them up. The stuttering girl began wailing. The others shushed her. While they were sorting themselves out, Lane cinched the leather belt around the bloody remains of Mr. Joseph's arm. Before she could tie it off, Carol interrupted her.

Don't. I'll need to loosen it once every fifteen minutes until help arrives. If you can carry him, I'll hold it tight.

Hey! One of the idiots, Meghan, was finally aware enough of her surroundings to register a complaint. That's my new Gucci belt! I loaned it to Marcia. You can't...

No one found out what Lane couldn't do with Meghan's belt. Lane's fist connected with Meghan's nose, Meghan's head bounced off the garage door, and Meghan crumpled to the ground, out cold. Lane's eyes tracked furiously across the remaining three, locking onto Marcia.

Shut up. Follow me or don't, see if I care.

With that, she turned and gently picked Mr. Joseph off the ground. He'd always seemed so big, but Lane realized now that he was shorter than her by quite a few inches. He also didn't have her build, strengthened by her twice-daily workouts. If he weighed one sixty-five, she'd be surprised. Carefully, to be sure Carol could keep pressure on the tourniquet; Lane jogged back to the emergency door, which still stood open. Once they were both inside, Lane carefully lowered her teacher to the floor.

The other girls followed her in. One of them pulled an emergency LED flashlight from her purse, and it pierced through the gloom, showing Lane the wreckage of her project Jeep. She turned toward them, ready to swear at them until they took a swing, then beat them all within an inch of their lives.

He saved us. Carol's quiet, pensive voice pulled Lane from her furious focus on her tormentors. Her's gaze tracked down to meet Carol's eyes and the anguish she saw there forced Lane to give up her plans of mayhem. Please, Lane, can you get the nurse? If there are more of those things out there, I don't think...

Lane never found out what Carol didn't think. A voice like crystal and metal and trumpets rang out from outside the door. Before she realized what she was doing, Lane was outside, her crowbar in her hand, her welding mask slapping back down to shield her eyes from the brilliantly glowing figure that vaulted across the school's front lawn. She ran toward the sound of howls and screaming. In the shade of her visor, the figure resolved itself, but Lane still found it hard to believe. An armored knight, solid articulated plates of armor from head to toe, bounded across the field like a gazelle. Lane watched the knight land, en pointe like a ballet dancer, next to one of the bear-dogs. The voice of crystal and steel rang out like a trumpet once more.

Begone, foul Demon of Night! Your evil power is no match for the Might of Right! You I will smite, for I am the Queen's Knight!

With that, a sword appeared in the knight's upraised hand. It blazed a white so bright it left afterimages on Lane's vision even behind the welding mask. The knight brought the blazing blade down on the bear-dog, which crouched, flinching from the light. As the tip of the sword touched the bear-dog, it disappeared with a flash as bright as the sword itself. Again the voice of crystal and steel rang out across the campus.

Sic Semper Malum! While the Queen's Knight fights, Evil takes fright!

Shaking her head to clear her vision, Lane looked around the lawn. Bear-dogs had trapped some girls in their cars, a few tore at the heavy doors of the main building, but most of them loped after girls who sprinted away from them, all sense of decorum thrown to the winds.

While Martin Van Buren Academy for girls prided itself on academics, the girls excelled at a few sports. Track and field was one. There weren't many students who couldn't run and run well. The bear-dogs seemed a little on the slow side. Maybe they were pursuit predators. Whatever the reason, they didn't seem able to catch their prey, and the armored knight bounded about the lawn and even straight through a parked car. With each leap, the blazing blade touched another bear-dog, and with each touch another of the monsters erupted into blinding light.

Since the armored knight seemed to be getting the bear-dog situation in hand, Lane checked her immediate surroundings, looking for a way to the window of the Nurse's office. The only obstacle she saw were the bear-dogs at the main door. If they saw her, she still had her pry bar. She took one last look around to make sure she wasn't being stalked. What she saw made her blood run cold.

Most of the students at Marten Van Buren were at least passable athletes. There were a few exceptions. Four of the idiots in the garage were too delinquent to take exercise and were failing phys ed because of it. Some of the girls had problems with asthma. Then there was Gwen.

Gwen MacAdams' face was a study in controlled concentration. Her hands clamped to the wheels of her chair. Her stiff arms shook where they strained to hold her in her chair, to push her chair back away from the bear-dog in front of her. The bear-dog growled, its teeth looking obscenely like a smile, as it tugged her, inch by inch, down the sidewalk. Its powerful jaws locked onto Gwen's calf, stretching it out in front of her, the blanket that normally covered her legs snagged on Gwen's right wheel.

Gwen!

Lane sprinted, wishing she could bound like the armored knight, wishing she were one of the track team, wishing she did her cardio on a treadmill instead of a rowing machine. Despite her pounding feet, her heaving lungs, and the ongoing cacophony of the bear-dog attack and the knight's counterattack, she heard Gwen's calm, considered response clearly.

Lane. This hurts. A lot. Please get this thing off my leg.

Lane swung her pry bar back behind her, then around in an overhand arc, the power of her whole body in the strike, slamming the curved hook end into the bear-dog's neck. The neck parted like a razor had sliced through it. Dust covered Lane and Gwen as the bear-dog flashed to nothing. Panting, Lane looked around for others. One approached, an eerie howl coming from its lips. Lane stepped toward it, brandishing her pry bar threateningly.

The armored knight landed next to the advancing bear-dog. Its blazing blade slashed down to banish the horrible thing in a burst of light. The knight stopped, sinking to her feet. The blazing blade disappeared when the knight opened her hand. Lane assumed the knight was a woman, not too many guys could pull off that en pointe thing. Lane still wondered how the knight did that in armor. Or leapt around to make gazelles jealous, for that matter. Again the voice of crystal and steel spoke, no longer ringing like a trumpet, but echoing like one of those big horns in old movies and cough drop commercials.

Valiant one! Cross swords not with the demons, lest ye fall to them. Those not pure of spirit are no match for the forces of hell. Return you to your sport, knowing that you and yours are protected by the Queen's Knight! Evil is vanquished, but I shall return anon as needed!

With that, the knight leapt away, landing on the second story roof of the school building. Her next leap carried her out of Lane's sight, and the campus dulled to the light of a normal, if cloudy day.

Lane turned to see Gwen speaking calmly into her cell phone. Blood covered her right leg. One of her sleeves wrapped about her right thigh. The missing sleeve left her arm bare, and even after the blood loss her skin remained dark and smooth as midnight silk, with purplish undertones that only made it seem darker where they showed. Lane met Gwen's gaze as the handicapped girl folded her phone closed, ending her call.

Both girls had been social outcasts since their freshman year. While Lane didn't think Gwen thought of her as a friend, the two had spent a fair amount of time studying together. No one wanted to work with either of them. At some point over the past three years, Lane had stopped being surprised by Gwen's eyes or her hair. The former were a brilliant green, like kiwi fruit. The latter was a vibrant red, which Gwen insisted she didn't dye, but had been her mother's natural hair color as well.

Gwen regarded Lane with patience edging into exasperation.

Are you going to push me over to the garage, so the paramedics can treat me too, or am I going to bleed to death? I promise I'm not going to do it quietly.

Before she really realized what she was doing, Lane found herself behind the wheelchair, trudging back toward the garage step by exhausted, painful step. Her pry bar hung over her shoulder, down her back. The knight said the bear-dogs were gone, but she wasn't leaving her pry bar behind. Stupid from the aftereffects of too much adrenaline and abuse, she said the first thing she could think of.

Doesn't that hurt?

Doesn't what hurt?

Your leg.

Of course it does.

Are you in shock?

No.

Then why aren't you screaming, or thrashing, or fainting or something?

Because I lied to you.

It doesn't hurt?

No. I lied three years ago when I told you I couldn't feel my legs.

Lane blinked, caught off guard by the apparent non-sequitur.

Huh?

A longsuffering sigh escaped Gwen, and she began digging through her purse.

When we met, you were insensitive enough to ask the cripple why she was crippled. I lied to you. I told you I couldn't feel my legs.

Um, ok. And?

Y'know, you've been a better friend than I deserve, given the circumstances, but you can be as thick as a box of rocks at times.

Hey, I saved you back there!

I appreciate it, too. I think our glowing savior would have rather I was towed off. Anyhow, that's why I'm telling you the truth.

Ok then. Spill.

I can feel my legs. I always have been able to. I have a degenerative bone disease, primarily of my lower spine.

So your spine won't hold you up?

That would put me in a wheelchair, but no. Before you ask, when I move anything below my waist, it puts pressure on several nerves.

That hurts?

Excruciatingly.

So if you keep your legs still, they don't hurt?

I didn't say that.

So why aren't you on, like, morphine?

I have the choice of a short, painful life where I might actually accomplish something, or a short useless life drugged into insensibility by morphine. Which would you take?

I dunno. I'm sorry.

Why? Did you do it? Who knows? Maybe you did, in some other life. At any rate, having several savage bite wounds is only slightly more painful than normal.

What are you looking for?

This.

Gwen pulled a small prescription bottle from her purse. Twisting the top off, she carefully shook two tiny pills into her hand.

What are those?

Concentrated painkiller. My foster-dad got a pharmacist to knock them together for me. Given the circumstances, I think I'm justified in taking a pair and zoning until the paramedics are done.

Well, at least your arms don't hurt when you move them.

Whatever gave you that idea?

Artemis, Earlier That Day

As she shimmied into the air vent, Mary contemplated the nature of secrets.

Artemis Mary Drake didn't have a secret. Saying she had a secret implied that there was only one. Mary had more secrets than she could conveniently remember. She learned long ago to compartmentalize, to track her secrets with mnemonics, and to spout endless drivel at a rate that left most people convinced that she was mentally defective.

They would have been stunned to watch her slowly and carefully disable the motion sensors in the vent shaft. What would have surprised them less, if they thought about it, was her fitting in the shaft. Fitting into fashionable outfits didn't allow for a large frame.

The most obvious secrets Mary kept were those of her father's job. Ulysses Drake worked as a roving troubleshooter for the State Department. On more than one occasion he moved his wife and daughter like pawns to support his efforts to manipulate the fate of nations. His enemies, his allies, and some who were both and neither at once saw his daughter as an easy mark, someone to ply with exotic gifts for the secrets Ulysses held. In doing so, each of them gave away the most important information of all: what information they considered worth having.

Sometimes they plied her with gifts for other reasons. That was when self-defense classes and the whipcord muscles beneath her minimal curves came in. Those same muscles lowered her slowly down a vertical shaft until she reached the ground floor.

From her father’s work she knew more secrets from more nations than any eighteen-year-old girl ought to know. The most important of all those secrets was that while her father's desk was in the State Department's offices, his orders often came from agencies with far less savory reputations.

Thinking of unsavory people kept her from thinking about the unsavory substances her crawl through the vents smeared on her jacket. She'd turned it inside out before she started, so it wouldn’t stain the outside, but that meant she would rub that stuff into her skin later.

The secrets of her father's work were dangerous, but dangerous in ways that she was shielded from. Her first and strongest shield was her gum chewing, bleached blonde, brainless cheerleader persona; no intelligence operative could believe that she would fake that level of inanity. The next layer of shields was the fear and favors owed her. Her father was a feared man, and not all the bribes she'd received were the sort a man wants his daughter receiving. Dangerous men the world over suspected that should she come to grief, they would follow shortly after, when her father read her diary. Her final shields were the guards that her father placed on her, who shadowed her every movement. Other girls her age had vague fears about peeping toms. Mary knew who watched her shower, knew who watched her swim, knew who watched every aspect of her life.

She was even aware of the reason her parents chose Martin Van Buren Academy. While the obvious reason had been the number of children of government functionaries who attended the 'average American High School for above average International girls', Mary was familiar enough with guards to recognize which of her teachers had carried what weapons in their careers. Her English and Math teachers were former CIA, but those were easy; she remembered them meeting with her father when she was eight. Her music teacher had been with Mossad; the carriage was unmistakable. Social Studies was a Marine, Mary suspected a sniper. The rangy little man who tended the grounds and maintained the vehicles had been a SEAL. The only two she wasn't certain of were the gym coaches. The only two male instructors at the school, she knew they were South African and American by accent, but beyond that she was at a loss.

Maybe they were just gym coaches.

Anything was possible. Even stopping a running ventilator fan without stopping the motor it was attached to. Once the fan stopped, she crawled through the blades and looked through the vent into the secluded alcove that kept the fan hoods from spoiling the appearance of the building.

International secrets were easy to keep. It wasn't often, after all, that a typical teenage girl’s conversation drifted to Afghani tribal interactions, South American drug cartel influence on government,