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Each time he lifted a foot, the soggy earth held on to the rubber sole for a moment before letting go. A few times the mud held so tightly that the boy’s foot lifted clear out of his Alpinak and he had hop back to scoop it onto his toes. Not long before, eastern Bosnia’s villagers had buzzed with excitement when one of their own, Ejub Ali?, finished medical school and went to work with the city folk in Srebrenica. It wasn’t a common occurrence for a peasant to become a professional, and Ilijaz Pilav’s parents had taken note. Now they, too, could boast as their son followed in Ejub’s footsteps, beginning work as a general practitioner in the Srebrenica health clinic. As Dr. Friedman left the room, he identified my dad outside, sitting in the waiting area reading a book. As the two men chatted about what I was like before I’d gotten sick, my father described me as an active kid, a straight A student who made friends easily, who played hard and worked hard. That picture contrasted sharply with the disarrayed young woman Dr. Friedman had just examined. Even so, he looked my dad directly in his eyes and said, “Please stay positive. It will take time, but she will improve.” When Dr. Friedman embraced him, my dad broke down, a brief surrender.

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