sizzled. A delicious smell filled the air.
Finally, they couldn't wait one second longer. There was only enough for each boy to have a few bites, but, oh, how delicious those bites were!
Salva swallowed and turned his eyes back toward the teacher. He wished he hadn't recalled those times, because the memories made him hungry.... Milk. When he got home, he would have a bowl of fresh milk, which would keep his belly full until suppertime.
He knew just how it would be. His mother would rise from her work grinding meal and walk around to the side of the house that faced the road. She would shade her eyes with one hand, searching for him. From far off he would see her bright orange headscarf, and he would raise his arm in greeting. By the time he reached the house, she would have gone inside to get his bowl of milk ready for him.
CRACK!
The noise had come from outside. Was it a gunshot? Or just a car backfiring?
The teacher stopped talking for a moment. Every head in the room turned toward the window.
Nothing. Silence.
The teacher cleared his throat, which drew the boys' attention to the front of the room again. He continued the lesson from where he had left off. Then—
CRACK! POP-POP-CRACK!
ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
Gunfire!
"Everyone,
DOWN!
" the teacher shouted.
Some of the boys moved at once, ducking their heads and hunching over. Others sat frozen, their eyes and mouths open wide. Salva covered his head with his hands and looked from side to side in panic.
The teacher edged his way along the wall to the window. He took a quick peek outside. The gunfire had stopped, but now people were shouting and running.
"Go quickly, all of you" the teacher said, his voice low and urgent. "Into the bush. Do you hear me? Not home. Don't run home. They will be going into the villages. Stay away from the villages—run into the bush."
He went to the door and looked out again.
"Go! All of you, now!"
The war had started two years earlier. Salva did not understand much about it, but he knew that rebels from the southern part of Sudan, where he and his family lived, were fighting against the government, which was based in the north. Most of the people who lived in the north were Muslim, and the government wanted all of Sudan to become a Muslim country—a place where the beliefs of Islam were followed.
But the people in the south were of different religions and did not want to be forced to practice Islam. They began fighting for independence from the north. The fighting was scattered all around southern Sudan, and now the war had come to where Salva lived.
The boys scrambled to their feet. Some of them were crying. The teacher began hurrying the students out the door.
Salva was near the end of the line. He felt his heart beating so hard that its pulse pounded in his throat and ears. He wanted to shout, "I need to go home! I must go home!" But the words were blocked by the wild thumping in his throat.
When he got to the door, he looked out. Everyone was running—men, children, women carrying babies. The air was full of dust that had been kicked up by all those running feet. Some of the men were shouting and waving guns.
Salva saw all this with one glance.
Then he was running, too. Running as hard as he could, into the bush.
Away from home.
CHAPTER TWO
Southern Sudan, 2008
Nya put the container down and sat on the ground. She always tried not to step on the spiky plants that grew along the path, but their thorns littered the ground everywhere.
She looked at the bottom of her foot. There it was, a big thorn that had broken off right in the middle of her heel. Nya pushed at the skin around the thorn. Then she picked up another thorn and used it to poke and prod at the first one. She pressed her lips together against the pain.
Southern Sudan, 1985
BOOM!
Salva turned and looked. Behind him, a huge black cloud of smoke rose. Flames darted out of its base. Overhead, a jet plane veered away like a sleek evil bird.
In the
Finally, they couldn't wait one second longer. There was only enough for each boy to have a few bites, but, oh, how delicious those bites were!
Salva swallowed and turned his eyes back toward the teacher. He wished he hadn't recalled those times, because the memories made him hungry.... Milk. When he got home, he would have a bowl of fresh milk, which would keep his belly full until suppertime.
He knew just how it would be. His mother would rise from her work grinding meal and walk around to the side of the house that faced the road. She would shade her eyes with one hand, searching for him. From far off he would see her bright orange headscarf, and he would raise his arm in greeting. By the time he reached the house, she would have gone inside to get his bowl of milk ready for him.
CRACK!
The noise had come from outside. Was it a gunshot? Or just a car backfiring?
The teacher stopped talking for a moment. Every head in the room turned toward the window.
Nothing. Silence.
The teacher cleared his throat, which drew the boys' attention to the front of the room again. He continued the lesson from where he had left off. Then—
CRACK! POP-POP-CRACK!
ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
Gunfire!
"Everyone,
DOWN!
" the teacher shouted.
Some of the boys moved at once, ducking their heads and hunching over. Others sat frozen, their eyes and mouths open wide. Salva covered his head with his hands and looked from side to side in panic.
The teacher edged his way along the wall to the window. He took a quick peek outside. The gunfire had stopped, but now people were shouting and running.
"Go quickly, all of you" the teacher said, his voice low and urgent. "Into the bush. Do you hear me? Not home. Don't run home. They will be going into the villages. Stay away from the villages—run into the bush."
He went to the door and looked out again.
"Go! All of you, now!"
The war had started two years earlier. Salva did not understand much about it, but he knew that rebels from the southern part of Sudan, where he and his family lived, were fighting against the government, which was based in the north. Most of the people who lived in the north were Muslim, and the government wanted all of Sudan to become a Muslim country—a place where the beliefs of Islam were followed.
But the people in the south were of different religions and did not want to be forced to practice Islam. They began fighting for independence from the north. The fighting was scattered all around southern Sudan, and now the war had come to where Salva lived.
The boys scrambled to their feet. Some of them were crying. The teacher began hurrying the students out the door.
Salva was near the end of the line. He felt his heart beating so hard that its pulse pounded in his throat and ears. He wanted to shout, "I need to go home! I must go home!" But the words were blocked by the wild thumping in his throat.
When he got to the door, he looked out. Everyone was running—men, children, women carrying babies. The air was full of dust that had been kicked up by all those running feet. Some of the men were shouting and waving guns.
Salva saw all this with one glance.
Then he was running, too. Running as hard as he could, into the bush.
Away from home.
CHAPTER TWO
Southern Sudan, 2008
Nya put the container down and sat on the ground. She always tried not to step on the spiky plants that grew along the path, but their thorns littered the ground everywhere.
She looked at the bottom of her foot. There it was, a big thorn that had broken off right in the middle of her heel. Nya pushed at the skin around the thorn. Then she picked up another thorn and used it to poke and prod at the first one. She pressed her lips together against the pain.
Southern Sudan, 1985
BOOM!
Salva turned and looked. Behind him, a huge black cloud of smoke rose. Flames darted out of its base. Overhead, a jet plane veered away like a sleek evil bird.
In the
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