The cold rain of the Masasani night didn't feel like water; it felt like hundreds of tiny needles piercing through the thin cotton fabric of my white shirt. As the rough, calloused hands dragged me by my hair across the wet gravel of the driveway, my scalp burned with a white hot agony. My bare feet scraped against the jagged stones, leaving dark streaks of blood that were instantly washed away by the downpour.
Behind me, inside the dark cabin of the blue Toyota pickup truck, Doctor Chaulo lay completely motionless. His head was slumped heavily against the steering wheel, his dark hair matted with the fresh, thick blood pouring from the deep gash on his temple where the iron pipe had struck him. He looked so small in the dim light of the dashboard, so fragile for a man who had just promis
