Now, as we step from the safe room into the fire—as I half carry the children in my ragged arms because if not me then who else?—I look ahead, and find a ragged young black man upon his knees. He reaches for me, and I catch the stink of Alem Bekagn, shocking and present. Oh, sweet Mother: let it not all be the fever dream of a dying fool. Say it is not ’74 and I have not the whole horror to do again.