Talia is standing by the small window inside a worn tent, a streak of morning light framing her pretty face in the smoky air. She smiles at the baby in her arms, and for a singular, brief moment she looks like a Madonna in the midst of hell. Her three elder children are sitting on a blanket set on the cold, damp ground. The eldest, a boy of seven, has a vacant look in his eyes, and he twitches every few seconds, like someone lost beyond the edge of pain. His younger brother and sister gaze at him, then look quickly...
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