They passed another truck, slow-going with people in the bed and hanging onto the sides, growing like a giant tumor as it made its way into town. Many more people walking, no guns or rocket launchers. Just staffs or bags of food or bottles of water. At one point, the truck stopped and a couple of boys demanded the food and water from some women, vividly dressed and carrying the goods on their shoulders, only the most essential parts of their faces visible. The boys showed no respect. Instead, they were pissed that the women were angry for the soldiers taking the food from their children's mouths.

One boy said to them, "We're you're children! We are, too!" And then he took away the second bottle of water he was going to leave with them and poured it out on the road.

One of the boys told Adem and Jabriil that the woman was actually in business, trying to sell food and khat. Adem kind of knew what khat was. His dad and uncles had talked about it with smiles on their faces.

Adem wondered what they were fighting for, or against, if this was all it took to rile them up. Shoving. Pointing guns. A mother and daughter and two young sons, much younger than those in the truck. The sons made guns with their fingers, danced around. The boys in the truck laughed, urged them on. Adem turned to Jibriil, found him grinning. Adem coughed.

The boys climbed back into the truck, their stolen bread and lamb and water passed around like a prize. They'd also taken some khat. Raw leaves. Many of the boys grabbed at those and chewed. Adem lifted his bandana, took a sip of the tart, lukewarm water, and wished it was Mountain Dew.