Atheist Life Hacks: How Not To Be A Victim
I gripped my Dad’s hand as tight as I could and tried to look away. We picked up our pace and I began hopping to keep up with my dad’s long strides. I strained my neck as we passed. I saw a little boy, naked, standing next to a woman. She was sick. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I could see that it was bad, her eyes looked like milk. The little boy’s belly was enormous compared to the rest of his body and he had an open wound up his right arm, from his wrist to his elbow. Flies were landing on it. I squeezed my Dad’s hand and buried my face in it as we walked through the jungle, past their shack, to the little tiny restaurant for breakfast. When we sat down, I looked at my Dad, and he looked at me with glistening eyes and a wet streak down his cheek and smiled a sort of half smile as he reached out and held my hand again.

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