I ignore his remark and ask him what he’s heard from Wright-Patterson. At night the firelight turns the smoke a deep crimson, like the air itself is bleeding. By day the refugee camp ringing Wright-Patterson swims in a dense, choking fog. Or maybe he’s come to see if I’m still alive he’s in charge of disposal for this part of the camp. ![]() He’s about ten years older, and I think he looks at me like a little brother. ![]() ![]() Chris, the guy who shared this tent with me before I got sick, tells me anyway: “Dude, I think you’re dying,” he says, squatting outside the tent’s opening, his eyes wide and unblinking above the filthy rag that he presses against his nose.Ĭhris has come by to check up on me.
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