SHAKING

I approach the well guarded building slowly. There's a Chadian behind the bulletproof glass. I pull out my documents and slide them under the security port. I decide to speak in English instead of French.

"I'm here to report the death of my son."

The man checks my passport and then motions me to go through the door to the left. I pass through the metal detector and another man escorts me across the compound with its barbed wire, satellites and heavy security. We approach a door in a wall. A metal panel is slid back from a metal grate. A man quickly verifies that I'm with a known entity and opens the door. We walk across a sidewalk through well manicured lawns and into an air conditioned waiting room in front of another bulletproof glassed office.

A short, well-dressed American with a red beard gives me a smile while a tall Chadian briefly looks over his shoulder.

"Ça va?" the American asks.

"Ça va," I reply as I approach the window. I pass him my passport, Adam's passport and the death certificate from the Bere Adventist Hospital. "I'm here to report the death of my son, I was told it needed to be reported." My voice is hollow and void of emotion.

The red-haired man's smile disappears and he would have paled if that would have been possible with his fair skin. His hands start to tremble. "I'm sorry. Ummm,... I'm very sorry." He kind of stands there and starts looking at the documents. I can tell he's nervous.

"The person who normally handles these things is not here today. I've never done this before. Ummm...." He scans the papers again in his trembling hands.

"Should I just have a seat over there?" I ask trying to ease the mans obvious discomfort.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'll just go look things up. Have a seat."

I sit in the very clean, tiled floored, air conditioned, empty waiting room. I pick up a Chadian daily newspaper in French and start reading to distract myself with hearing about the President's long, boring speech in Moundou on December 1st. Back when life was completely different and I was the father of twins.

After 5 minutes or so, the American escorts me back to an office. He tries to find the paperwork on the computer and we make small talk. Then he leaves. I'm numb. I see Adam's passport tossed casually on the desk. I'm in the middle of another sterile room, neatly organized, air conditioned, no dust, so out of place in this raw, wild country. But even America can't keep it completely at bay. Out the window I see that dust covered spider webs have taken over all the angles of the iron bars meant to keep things well controlled and safe. The grout in the tile is dirty despite their efforts to maintain their purity.

I stare but I'm not really seeing much. My gut tells me that something is wrong but my mind has suppressed it so I can't feel. I just sense an emptiness. I feel like I'm in a movie. Like I'm about to be interrogated and maybe I should flee. But on the computer screen in front of me I see an official State Department document open reminding me of the reality. Splashed across the top in clean, crisp computer pixels is a name: Adam David Bindesboll Appel. And all the other concrete information needed to provide official documents to make sure it's real and there's no doubt or room to think it might be a dream or a nightmare to awaken from:

Date and Time of Death: December 31, 2011 7:15AM
Cause of Death: Complications of Malaria
Location of Body: Buried on Bere Adventist Hospital grounds between Kelo and Lai

The document is ready. The red-bearded man is back. He turns the dial on the safe and pulls out the huge seal to stamp it official.

"How many copies do you want? You can have up to 10 for free."

"I think that three will be enough."

I hear the squeaking of the machine and the crunching of the paper as it is crimped into the seal of the US government making it official.

"Again, my condolences," the man's hands are still shaking as they shake mine. He escorts me back to the room with the metal detector. All the Chadians in the room look at me with compassion in their eyes as they firmly grasp my hands.

"Mes condolances." I walk out into the reality of the Chadian heat and slowly make my way back to my car, some official documents clutched in my hands.