An Englishman in New England

I frequently dream of heroes.

Of being them, of seeing them, of knowing that they exist. They live a life of watchfulness, like shepherds, over the flock that we've become.

We don't know that they're there. The papers never print stories about their work; the countless disasters that are averted, the foiled plans and captives lifted from the clutches of those who would do them harm.

They work among us, unnoticed, and their power is measured not in tonnes, or miles, but in centimeters, grams, split-seconds. They fight impossible odds day after day, fucking sacrifice everything for every last increment of time and space, so that for those times when you step into traffic without looking, or are being followed late at night, you have a chance to make it home.

Sometimes they win, and other times they unwillingly must let you go. Still other times, they need your help. You will never suspect it before and after that fleeting moment when you are their instrument of good. But when they choose you, when you're in the right place at the right time, and worthy of their strength and courage, you are the savior of someone's life.

Without you, people you have never known would not live today.