The first thing Martha noticed about Africa was the heat.
Not the sharp heat of noon, but the heavy, patient warmth that wrapped around her when she stepped off the plane. It smelled of dust and jet fuel and, faintly, wood smoke.
“First time on this continent?" a man beside her asked as they walked across the tarmac.
He was their local fixer, introduced in a dozen emails as Joseph. In person, he was taller than she expected, with kind eyes and a battered cap.
“First time," Martha said.
“You get used to the heat," Joseph said. “You never get used to the mosquitoes."
“I've had my shots," she said.
He grinned. “They didn't get theirs."
They reached the small terminal. The rest of the crew gathered their cases. Martha shifted her camera bag on her shoulder.
“Ready?" Joseph asked.
She
