Exactly one week ago at about 11:30am, as I sat at my desk working, two enormous explosions shook my house. My windows rattled, my coffee slightly sloshed in its mug, and my dogs started barking in alarm. I remarked to my wife across the hall: “Those were some big ones.” She wordlessly agreed. I do not live in Baghdad. I do not live in the Donbas. I live outside of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Indeed, I live several miles outside of the artillery firing ranges at Fort Bragg, yet the shockwaves barely elicited an acknowledgment from either me or my wife. Four to five times a year, military...
