Thank you for being here and taking the time to read this. In a world where attention is pulled in every direction, that means more than I can say.
What you're about to read is a chapter from my book Still Alive But At What Cost — a raw, unfiltered account of two decades spent running toward disaster. War zones. Humanitarian crises. Places most people only see on the news. This chapter drops you right into one of those moments.
But this book isn't really about the danger. It's about what a life like that costs you when no one's watching — the people you miss, the grief you outrun, the quiet price of always being needed somewhere else.
If this chapter pulls you in, I'd be honored if you picked up the full book. And if you read it and it stays with you — if it makes you think, feel, or see something differently — the single greatest thing you could do for me is leave an honest review. Not a favor. Not flattery. Just your truth. Reviews are what allow a book like this to find the people who need it most.
Thank you for being part of this.
— Burke Bryant
Gut Punch
The cell smelled like piss and sweat. No windows. One bare bulb. The woman in the corner hadn't looked away since the door slammed shut.
She had killed her husband the night before.
At least that's what the guards told me after they threw me inside.
She was high on heroin—still high, by the look of it. Pupils blown black, body sagging against the wall but strung tight underneath—like something about to snap.
Sweat ran off her in streams, sharp and sour.
When I stepped inside, she locked on me. Didn't blink. Didn't look away. Just stared with those dead black eyes, breathing shallow, each breath sour and wrong.
It wasn't curiosity. It was something colder.
This wasn't just any jail. It was a holding cell outside Juba, South Sudan. Paperwork mattered less than who you knew, and survival depended on whether someone remembered you existed.
Three hours in, without warning, she lunged.
She screamed something I didn't understand, swinging wildly. One hand connected with my cheekbone—a sharp crack that sent heat spreading across my face. The other tangled in my hair and yanked hard. My scalp burned. My head snapped back against the wall, skull meeting concrete with a dull thud that rang through my teeth.
I thought, Don't touch her.
Then I thought, That rule no longer applies.
I pulled back and drove a fist into her abdomen. Not hard—just enough. The impact traveled up my forearm, soft flesh giving way. She folded with a grunt, air rushing out of her. It didn't slow her.
She came again.
The door burst open. Heavy boots on concrete. A guard rushed in and punched her square in the jaw. The sound was wet and final. She dropped instantly, dead weight hitting the floor. He dragged her unconscious body out like a sack of grain, her heels scraping the concrete.
He turned to me, eyes narrowed.
"You call yourself a man? Next time, act like one."
The door slammed shut. The echo hung in the air.
I sat there in the silence, heart hammering against my ribs. My face throbbed where she'd connected, already swelling. The back of my head pulsed. I checked my ribs—sore but nothing broken. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against the concrete floor, cold and gritty, trying to steady them.
Less than twenty-four hours in the country, and I was already in a jail cell with a murderer.
I laughed. Couldn't help it. A short, sharp sound that bounced off the walls. The absurdity of it was almost funny. Almost.
I'd come to South Sudan to help. To document. To do something that mattered. And here I was—sitting on the floor of a holding cell, tasting copper, having just punched a woman high on heroin who may or may not have actually killed her husband.
I had no phone. No way to contact anyone.
The guard's words kept replaying: "You call yourself a man? Next time, act like one."
I wasn't sure what "next time" he was imagining. I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.
Time passed. Minutes or hours, I couldn't tell. The bulb overhead flickered occasionally. My breathing slowed. Sweat cooled on my neck. I sat against the wall, knees pulled up, waiting for something to happen.
Then footsteps echoed down the corridor.
A man appeared at the bars—older, thick around the middle, uniform pressed and fitted. He wore a half-cocked beret like he'd studied war movies and decided that's what command looked like. Not a guard. Someone with rank.
He looked in, took in the scene—the empty cell, me alone against the wall, whatever marks were visible on my face—and laughed.
"She win?"
I snorted despite myself.
***
Two days earlier, I'd been in Los Angeles shooting fashion. Models on the cyc, chewing bubble gum during takes, wearing clothes that cost more than most people made in a month. I was a software engineer who'd traded code for cameras, restless, looking for something I couldn't name. I was done with it like so many other things in life. I wanted more. I needed more.
The headlines kept flashing: South Sudan. Civil war. One hundred thousand starving.
I bought a ticket. Didn't think it through. Told myself I wanted to help, document what was happening, make a difference. But that wasn't the whole truth.
***
The small turboprop began its descent, dropping fast toward a destination I barely understood. Eighteen hours of travel had worn me down. I hated flying—always had. The confinement, the pressure, the knowledge that if something went wrong, there was nowhere to go.
The plane dropped. My stomach rose into my chest. Below us, the earth looked stripped bare. No forests. No rivers. Just cracked land and dirt tracks that led nowhere. It looked unfinished. Abandoned.
The engines whined as we descended. The airframe shuddered. I gripped the armrest, knuckles white.
The plane touched down hard, tires shrieking against cracked tarmac.
My body slammed forward against the seatbelt. The runway ran out beneath us. Wrecked aircraft lined the far end—a boneyard of those who came before. Passengers erupted into applause. Survival had become routine.
I unbuckled and stood, legs unsteady.
Stepping off the plane, the heat hit like a wall. Not desert dry, not tropical humidity, but something in between. The sun was white and merciless.
The air smelled like diesel and dust and something else I couldn't place. My skin, already flushed, started to sweat immediately.
An elderly man moved slowly near the plane, unloading luggage by hand. He glanced at me.
"Which ones are yours?"
I nodded toward my green Osprey bag—pristine compared to everything else, purchased days earlier with a gift card from my family.
He grabbed both bags and tossed them toward me. They hit the pavement and skidded, fabric scraping against cracked tarmac. The Osprey picked up its first scar.
"You take them now; that's your job." Something in his tone made it feel less like instruction and more like test.
Then a stocky man in blue-and-black camouflage appeared. His gaze locked on me.
"Welcome to Juba." A crooked smile.
Inside the makeshift airport, nothing was straight: chipped walls, uneven floors, stale air that hadn't moved in years. A single wooden counter worn smooth by hands. Men in dark uniforms moved slowly, searching bags.
"Place your bags on the counter."
The process was mechanical. One man's attention stopped on lithium batteries tucked in my bag.
"What are these for?"
"My flashlight and camera gear." I kept my voice steady.
He paused, holding the batteries. His eyes flicked to me, then back to them. Testing.
I held his gaze. No words. No expression.
He glanced around the room—checking if anyone was watching. Then he set the batteries back and marked my bag with white chalk. An X. Clearance or reminder—I couldn't tell.
At the next counter, the young woman behind plexiglass didn't smile.
"Passport."
I slid it across. She flipped through pages fast, eyes cold and sharp.
"And your invitation letter, please."
"Invitation letter?"
"You cannot come in without one."
Before I could respond, a hulking man in camouflage stepped forward. A thick gold ring caught the light on his finger—too large, like it had belonged to someone else first. My stomach dropped.
"You don't have it. Come with me."
He led me down a narrow hallway stained with God knows what, then stopped.
"First door on the left."
He outweighed me by a hundred pounds, easy. I was in a country where I had no friends, no allies, no idea what came next. The whole thing felt like a scene straight out of a spy thriller, except I wasn't Jason Bourne. No weapons. No fancy footwork. Just me.
I stepped inside.
The room was dim—a chair, a small rusted table, a flickering bulb. The door clicked shut behind me. The lock turned. Cockroaches skittered across the floor and disappeared into a crack in the corner. The place felt more like a torture room than an office.
I stood there, pulse thumping in my ears. Mouth dry.
Then he returned.
"You're being deported." He said it like he'd said it a thousand times. To him, I was just a problem to remove.
My stomach dropped. I glanced out the window. The plane that had brought me was taxiing, getting ready to leave—the last flight of the day. The engine whine grew distant.
I let out a short laugh, involuntary.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Because the only plane that can take me home is leaving."
His eyes followed the plane as it lifted. Then he smiled faintly, and let out a quiet laugh. The tension broke.
"I think you might be having a lucky day. I like you. I'm going to help you, my friend."
Minutes later, he returned with my passport and the invitation letter.
I went back to the counter. Same woman, same expression. She glanced at him, then stamped a visa across my pages.
"Welcome to Juba."
I thought I'd made it. I was wrong.
***
Less than a day later, I sat on a concrete floor in a jail cell outside the city.
No invitation letter could save you from everything.
The police chief slowly leaned in, smiling.
"You want out?" he asked, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he held my gaze.
"How much?"
If you made it this far, you already know whether this book is for you.
Still Alive: But At What Cost is available now. Every copy sold, every review left, every person who shares it — that's how a story like this survives and finds the people who need it.
If it moved you, I'd be grateful if you'd take sixty seconds to leave a review wherever you purchase books. It doesn't have to be long. Just honest.
And if you know someone who needs to read this — a veteran, a first responder, someone carrying more than they'll admit — pass it along. Sometimes a book finds you at exactly the right moment.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading.
— Burke Bryant
Instagram: @burkebryant