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Leaders of the newly organized Bosnian Army Second Corps in Tuzla appointed a team of physicians and military experts to organize what had, until then, been spontaneous attempts to meet the health care needs of civilians and soldiers in northeast Bosnia. Its members were bewildered by the task. The Yugoslav Army Medical Academy’s detailed plans for a wartime health service were of little use to them, designed as they were to provide medical and surgical care to Yugoslavia’s citizens during an attack from abroad. The country had fractured instead. Hundreds of unanticipated front lines crisscrossed anticipated medical evacuation routes. Physicians often had no way to reach the towns where, according to the pocket Yugoslav Army Reserve cards they carried, they were supposed to report in case of war. My whole family was growing increasingly wayworn as time went on and no one seemed to have an answer. All the tests continued to come back negative, the immunoglobulin treatments didn’t seem to be the magic elixir that everyone had hoped they would be, and no one had been able to figure out what the high white blood cell count might be suggesting. Worse, Dr. Bugsy was now off the case, and this Dr. Najjar, whom everyone spoke so highly of, still hadn’t made an appearance. What would stop the others from giving up too and condemning me to a mental institution or a nursing home? Quietly, secretly, despite all their steadfast optimism, my family began to worry that if things continued to go downhill, they really might lose me forever. She thanked him and left. When he finished examining his patient, Ilijaz didn’t call for another. He went to Hamdija’s room instead. “A little higher,” he pronounces and points to a spot. He looks to the older doctor, who nods his agreement.