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evening breeze. It seemed to be coming from the truck.
    "Come on," Michael urged.
    "No," I said, and waited until all three of them had turned to look at me. Timing, now. "I want to see about that child," I said. "And I want that truck."
    I moved then, just ahead of their restraining hands and words.
    I ran. I ran around the carcass of the house, shifting for an instant from reality into my dream. I was running past the stark ruin of a house, its chimneys, its few remaining black bones just visible against the stars.
    Just for an instant, I thought I saw shadowy dream forms.
    Shadows rising, moving
    I shook off the feeling and stopped as I reached the larger chimney. I edged around it, willing the truckers not to shoot me, terrified that they would shoot me, moving fast in spite of the terror.
    The blue-gray light was brighter now, and the smell had become a sickening stench of rottenness that I found all too familiar.
    I crouched low, hoping to be out of sight of the truck's cameras, and I crossed in front of the truck—near enough to it to put out my hand and touch it. Then I had reached the far side of it where the light was, where the door must be open.
    As I went, I almost fell over the crying child. It was a lit-tle girl of perhaps six or seven. She was filthy beyond my ability to describe filthiness. She sat in the dirt, crying, reaching up to wipe away tears and rearrange some of the mud on her face.
    She looked up and saw me just as I managed to stop my-self from falling over her. She stared at me, her mourn open, as I swung past her to level my rifle into the blue-gray light of the truck's interior.
    I don't know what I expected to see: Drunken people sprawled about? An orgy? More filth? People aiming their weapons at me? Death?

    There was death nearby. I knew that. The smell was un-mistakable.
    What I did see in the blue-gray light was another child, another little girl, asleep at one of the truck's monitors. She had put her head down against the edge of the control board, and was snoring a little. The blue-gray light came from the three screens that were on. All three showed only gray, grainy electronic "snow."
    There were also three dead people in the truck.
    That is, I thought they must be dead. It was clear that all had been wounded—shot, I thought—several times. In fact, they must have been shot some time ago—days ago, per-haps. The blood on their bodies had dried and darkened.
    I don't share any feeling with the unconscious or the dead, I'm glad to say. No matter how they look or smell, they don't bother me that much. I've seen too many of them.
    I climbed into the truck, leaving the crying child outside to the care of the others. I could already hear Natividad talk-ing to her. Natividad loves kids, and they seem to trust her as soon as they meet her.
    Jorge and Michael had come up behind me as I climbed into the truck. Both froze as they saw the sleeping child and the sprawled bodies. Then Michael moved past me to check the bodies. He, Natividad, Allie Gilchrist, and Zahra Balter have learned to assist Bankole. They have no official med-ical or nurse training, but Bankole has trained them—is training them—and they're careful and serious about their work.
    Michael checked the bodies and discovered that only one, a slender, dark, middle-aged man, was dead. He had been shot in the chest and abdomen. The other two were a big, naked, middle-aged, blond woman shot in the legs and thighs and a clothed blond boy of about 15 shot in the legs and left shoulder. These people were covered with dried blood.
    Nevertheless, Michael found faint heartbeats in the woman and the boy.
    "We've got to get them to Bankole," he said. "This is too much for me."
    "Oh, shit," Jorge moaned, and he ran outside and threw up.
    I couldn't blame him. He had just noticed the maggots in the man's eyes, mouth, and wounds, and in the wounds of the other two. I looked away myself. All of us can deal with that kind of thing, but no one