So you put them down before they do it to you, or before they do it to someone else.

She almost laughs even though it's not funny, because it is; because she thinks of creeping down dimly lit cinderblock hallways and carefully opening doors to stab the men and women behind them as they sleep in their beds. Because if they wake up, if one of them sounds the alarm, all of her own people are dead. If her people die, Jesus's are next.

We don't want to kill. We don't like it. It happens.

She nods. "It was the third question," she says, and: "Thank you."