“Come, sit next to me on this rock, and tell me about your father.”
That was when Paul Farmer invited me in. I had arrived in Rwanda the previous day; three weeks before, my father had died. I was there to work, and so we were, lifting stones and digging holes to make a fish pond—he insisted on fish ponds—at a rural clinic called Rukira with his team and a group of volunteers. The sun was hot and high, and the red dust of the dry season was settling on my clothes and in my nostrils.
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