Jibriil stumbled over whatever phrase he was supposed to tell the man. More laughter from the kids. He had a tougher time with Somali than Adem, whose family had come from the northern coast and were well-versed in English even before they left the homeland. He spoke up, saved Jibriil from further ridicule.

"We have come from the snow to fight in the desert."

The man spat on the ground beside him. "Are you sure you're in the right place? Would you like a nice Coca-Cola?"

The boys in the back: "With lots of ice." "Look at them. Rich boys." "They'll die quickly and we can take their shoes."

Jibriil laughed along with them. It was the right move. The man put the sign into the truck and greeted them each with a big hug. The boys in the back applauded. They reached out their hands to help Adem and Jibriil get in. They slung their backpacks over their shoulders and climbed aboard. The man got into the cab and cranked up.

The other boys handed them AK-47s. Adem only knew what they were because Jibriil told him. Adem sat with the gun straight up between his knees, one hand wrapped tight with the strap of his backpack, now in his lap. Eyes on him like they were waiting for something.

He said, "Where are we going?"

A boy near him, middle-school aged, leaned over and said, "Initiation. Football."

"Football?"

A wide smile. "Yes, football."

Adem turned back to Jibriil. "We're going to play football?"

"Aw, yeah. Righteous."

"I didn't think we would be playing football."

Shrugged. He checked over his rifle like a pro, pulling back on the slide and slamming a bullet into the chamber. "Got to have something to do in-between killings."

*

The ride to Mogidishu was dusty, crowded. Painful. Adem had thought the planes were uncomfortable, but they were bliss compared to this hard-bucking truck, the smell of unwashed soldier boys, death and gases, all of it getting to him. One of the boys offered him a sweaty bandana. Adem covered his nose and mouth with it. Still better than the actual air.