The white, sterile scent of the VIP recovery wing at Lugalo Military Hospital did nothing to calm the violent, racing storm inside my chest. Outside the double paned glass windows, the tall palm trees of the military zone swayed gently in the afternoon sea breeze, completely detached from the wreckage of the life I carried inside my wet apron pocket. On the soft, white-sheeted bed in Room 104, Sasha was sleeping peacefully, a thin, green oxygen line resting under his small nose, his cheeks returning to a healthy, golden pink as the hospital's high pressure nebulizer finally cleared the last of the toxic Masasani cellar dust from his lungs.
Across the room, Isaac lay on a wider hydraulic bed, his right arm hooked to a dark crimson bag of type O blood that was slowly dripping life back into
