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  • The boy appeared atop the hill, his AK-47 leveled at me. He looked about twelve. I’d just left the aid station where my wife, who’s with Doctors Without Borders, was caring for victims of the latest atrocities. Though a truce had been declared, she’d warned me not to wander off.

    He approached, his rifle still drawn. Two bandoliers crossed his chest and a KA-BAR knife flashed from his belt. Suddenly he fired—but the tree trunk I leaned against absorbed the blast.

    Trembling, I offered half my cheese-and-bologne sandwich. He grimaced and sat down. “You got Hershey’s? M&M’s? Reese’s Pieces?”
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