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At first Ilijaz did not join the other doctors. His was the hottest front line, the closest to Serbia, and if it fell, the whole region would be endangered. For now, he believed the military needed him—not just medically, but in terms of morale. He would not leave his men. “You know… I haven’t taken it yet.” He will only say that he has worked at a war hospital on the front lines near Tuzla since April. “Hello, hello!” A few minutes later, Dr. Najjar strode into my private room, 1276, his voice booming. He had a measured gait and a slight slope to his back that made his head fall a few inches in front of his body, most likely due to the hours he spent hunched over a microscope. His thick mustache was worn at the tips from his habit of twisting and pulling at it when he was deep in thought.