I didn't recognize the phone number, but I knew the area code, 301: Cumberland, Md., aka Torturetown, USA. The area had gained notoriety as the home to many of the soldiers depicted in the infamous Abu Ghraib prison abuse photos. I had visited Cumberland numerous times over the previous two years researching a book I was writing about our torture program's effects on ordinary Americans. I had listened to people describe their deep level of betrayal by the military as well as those who said they wished we had done even more to the prisoners.

Looking through my list of contacts I figured out that the text was from a soldier -- let's call him Frankie -- a 34-year-old father of three. I had met Frankie at his home exactly one year prior. His small raised-ranch house was surrounded by similar ones, separated by narrow yards filled with lawn ornaments -- frog statues and mini-windmills. Inside, it was crammed with evidence of dedicated parenting -- cheerleading uniforms on hangers, children's toys piled up on the edges of the living room, and photos of beaming kids plastered on the fridge. We sat at his kitchen table, drinking water out of McDonald's souvenir glasses. The lights were mostly off, the television tuned in to the game with the sound off; his wife had taken his three young kids to the mall for the day so they wouldn't overhear what he had to say. 

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