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The more Ziva stayed in America, the more she thought about what she would do with her life. Gibbs he was old. That was foreign to her. In Mossad the average life span was closer to thirty than sixty. Her father was an anomaly. She had always figured she would die young. It wasn’t a pleasant idea but what must be done, must be done. That is what Mossad taught her. She had never thought about “retirement” or “savings.” Not kids or family or a white-picked fence home. She just went from assignment to assignment never thinking just moving.
But if she stayed in America she could live to be much older than her Israeli counterparts. Her hair might turn gray. She might start to lose her eyesight, hearing, or memory. It scared her but also made her strangely excited: to think of having that much time on earth, that much time to do, well whatever she wanted. Everyone around her never had that chance. She felt a bit guilty that she might be able to have that chance. She never thought about this for long. There was still a chance she would be killed here and she didn’t want to get her hopes up.