He remembered the aftermath of his seizure at the border vividly. That was the first time he got to ride in an ambulance with flashing lights. He was taken to a local infirmary and from there transferred to a military hospital in Salzburg where they poked and prodded him and stuck little pins on his scalp. Just so he could take a pill that made him sleepy and stupid.
As soon as he got reunited with his family several weeks later, he tossed out what was left of the pills he hated. His mother, father and brother were living in a makeshift refugee camp–a large barn on the outskirts of an Austrian border town with an unpronounceable name.
The first night in camp Attila tasted his first orange. He bit into the rind of his orange like he’d bite into an apple. He liked the strange, new, pungent
