Oh no oh no oh no. May god forgive me — this machete is in deep. Do you think I should pull it out? I’ll leave it in. It could help stop the bleeding.

How far is it to the nearest clinic? Didn’t they just build one in Goma, on the border? A small one with mosquito nets and the Kenyan-trained nurse? I’m dying to see that new med center. Without one, by tomorrow, my family will surely be dead.

We barely heard the rustle in the leaves before they attacked. How could I defend myself? I’m only one man, and they are an entire tribe. I cannot hold back a river.

Can you walk, Sulva, my lovely wife? Don’t cry. That knife is only in a couple of inches. Can you take full breaths? If we can find the hospital soon, I’m sure they can save your lung … Oh, why is there no one on this road? Where are the donkey carts? Isn’t it market day?

If we have to walk, it’s how far to Goma? Eight hours on a good day, with the winds at our backs and a spring in our steps? In our conditions, can we even … hope to … risk it?

In that little clinic in Goma, they should have a needle and thread and a little penicillin. They’ll have blood. Stay awake, my Sulva. It’s cloudy, and it’s getting cold. But if the rains don’t come, or we find a friend with a horse and wagon, we might be able to make it.