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Refugees were arriving in large trucks to be processed as before they entered the camp. I could see their black hair sprinkled with red dust. The women were bathed in colorful fabric. The men were tall and serious. I had nothing else to offer but handshakes, smiles, and questions. I checked off my list of questions with a woman leaned against a tree stump. An infant nursed while her toddler wandered nearby. Her legs were flopped carelessly apart. I asked about her husband. With a flick of her wrist and an expressionless face she said, “mafi.” None. The husband was not dead. He never was. “How many days did you walk to get here?” My translator answered for her. “Her legs do not work.” My singular focus on my job of saving lives blinded me to her broken legs. She had been lamed long before the birth of her nursing infant. Why would a lame woman in this brutal world have a child? How does a lame woman even have sex? My mind slowed at this thought. I thought about all the soldiers and m