SAMUEL

2006

Samuel lived by three rules.

Never doubt Kony.

Stay alert.

And trust no one.

He didn't just follow the rules. He lived by them. He lived because of them.

Sitting in the shade on the low porch of a sprawling compound, he couldn't recall the traitorous thought that broke his first rule, but proof of the betrayal hid beneath the bloody bandage wrapped around his thigh. His captors promised the medicine was working, but he could feel the angry swelling beneath the stained wrapping covering the bullet wound where the infection had taken hold.

Samuel understood infection. In his eleven years, he had seen it burrow deep into the bodies of other children. Their feet. Their legs. Their chests. Their arms. Spreading like brush fire until it consumed them.

He picked at the frayed edge of his bandage and struggled to keep his thoughts from evaporating in the fog of painkillers dulling his senses. The drugs ate away at his second rule. He'd spent the last week swaying between fitful sleep and blurry consciousness, unable to form a clear understanding of where he was or what his captors wanted.

A peal of laughter nudged Samuel's attention away from his wound. His head lolled to the side as he watched a faded and worn soccer ball arc through the cloudless Ugandan sky before dropping into the midst of a group of excited children. It bounced off the forehead of the tallest, a teenage boy with legs like the gray crested crane, long and knobby-kneed. He sent it soaring across the dirt field to the waiting chest of a teammate. The huddle of children squealed with delight and scrambled after the ball, kicking up clouds of red dust with their bare feet.

Hard as he tried, Samuel couldn't fit together the images of the laughing children and the razor-wire fence trapping them within its boundaries. His eyes drooped closed from the effort as another numbing current of painkiller pulled him under. Splinters of a memory prickled beneath Samuel's muddied thoughts, and the joyful laughter on the field dissolved into terrified screams.

A sudden attack. Samuel and other panicked rebels grabbing their weapons. Government soldiers charging, guns raised. Explosions ripping into the earth, silencing screams and scattering bodies. A confusion of commands roaring above the smoke.

Bullets firing. Rebels falling. A terrible sharp pain in his leg. Blood gushing from the bullet wound. Samuel begging for help. Crying out for his mama.

Hands reaching for him. Taking his rifle. Taking his panga. Taking his bullets.

Leaving him wounded. Leaving him helpless. Leaving him.

RICKY

1987

"A powerful home is a place where people work hard," Ricky's mother said, handing him a basket. "You want us to have a powerful home, don't you?"

Ricky placed his school uniform in the basket and set it by the door. "Yes, but I promised I'd help my friends gather wood for the bonfire tonight."

"And you'll keep your promise," she said, "after you fetch me some cassava."

Ricky groaned. During the wet season, the sweet-potato tubers pushed deep into the earth, making them difficult to dig up in the dry season when the ground hardened. "How many do you need?" he asked.

"Fourteen. The whole village is gathering for the wangoo. I want to make sure I prepare enough."

Ricky groaned louder. "Can't Patrick do it? My friends are waiting."

"It won't kill them to wait a bit. Patrick is helping your father close up the school," she said, slicing a mango into bite-sized chunks. "And then he's promised to fix the radio for tonight, so I need your help preparing dinner."

While she wasn't looking, Ricky grabbed two chunks and popped them into his mouth. "What about the girls?" he asked, reaching for more. "Shouldn't they be helping?"

She swatted his hand away. "They are already outside gathering simsim."

Ricky's mouth watered at the thought of the sesame-and-honey treat he hoped his mother would make from the seeds his sisters were collecting. "Are you making candy?"

She smiled. "I thought it would be a nice treat to celebrate the end of another successful school year. Your father tells me you did well in your studies."

Ricky dug his big toe into the dirt floor. "Not as well as Patrick," he mumbled.

His mother looked up from her cutting. "Your brother has two more years of schooling than you. When you're fifteen, you'll be just as smart."

"When I'm fifteen, Patrick'll still be two years older and smarter than me."

She turned to fetch another mango. "Stop worrying about your brother's grades. Just worry about your own."

Ricky crammed another handful of fruit in his mouth before she returned to the table. He stopped chewing when she looked at him with one eyebrow raised and grabbed his swollen cheeks with her sticky fingers.

"And worry about what I am going to do to you if you don't stop eating my mango, Anywar."

Pulpy bits squished between Ricky's teeth as he smiled at her use of his Acholi name, a name reserved for special occasions or when he was trying her patience. "Sorry, Mama."

"You will be sorry if you don't get me some cassava." She delivered a playful swat to his backside. "Now, go! I have much to prepare before we leave for dinner."

Ricky swiped another chunk of mango and ran out the door.

As he made his way into the fields surrounding the family homestead, he tossed his hand hoe in the air. It somersaulted twice in the crisp blue sky before falling toward his waiting basket, where it bounced off the edge and landed in his father's beloved flower garden. Ricky stepped into the garden, and the familiar scent of night roses filled his lungs. A contented smile parted his lips, allowing a sigh to escape as he closed his eyes and breathed in his home.

The sprawling homestead had been in Ricky's family for generations. Tilled soil rolled in gentle waves with row upon row of maize, cassava, millet, simsim, and cotton, which grew in abundance on either side of the compound. A single-story, tin-roofed farmhouse and two thatch-roofed huts huddled together at the center of the property. Beyond the crops, herds of cattle dotted the fields that stretched out to the wild bush.

"Ricky!" his mother yelled. "Get me another mango to replace the one you've eaten!"

"Yes, Mama!"

Ricky jogged over to the tree he'd planted with his...