You run, a child in your arm. The child’s cry, a response to the commotion he doesn’t understand: The air is rent with the grisly sound of guns and grenades and death. For the first and only time, you understand what war means; how it gives a new home with foundation of corpses, and walls painted with the blood of kin.
But then you stop running; a bullet lodging under your ribs. You drag yourself to a tree. You smile at the child, as you rock him to sleep, with blood draining from you, leading you further away from home.