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We have survived. I want to do more than survive. I want to live. I want to raise children to know their heritage, to have the advantage of an education, and to mature into persons I will be proud to claim as my children." She smiled grimly. "It doesn't take 'a community to raise a child.' However, it does take a community to hang on to civilization."The buzz started again. A few people came up to talk to us or went to talk to Dad. We talked to folks but tried to remain watchful. I figured that this could turn into a volatile situation.One guy came up to us eyeing Pat with lusty eyes. He looked like one of those about who stories are written by people who don't know the south There really are a few. He talked to Pat's chest ignoring me. He said, "We don't need all that crap. I'm living fine and I was before. My woman died but I'll find a new one soon."Pat said, "Best of luck to you. My marriage is a source of constant joy to me. Mark is a very good man." His face betrayed his plan,. The air grew heavy around them as she took a small step forward. "Do you want to fuck me, Joe?" She whispered, her voice shaking.He took a step toward her, "Yes." It would just be you ... two?" she said, looking over at Smyth."For now... , " Smyth said moving beside Murph. "Just us."Morgan felt a shiver go up her spine as she stood in front of them. 'Remember your training,' she thought. Timidly she took off the loose tank, feeling her exposed skin hit the humid air. She knew what they wanted and what she needed to do.The quicker they fell for her, the better.Murph felt his cock go rigid, her body was perfect. Curvy and soft, her wide hips dipped into a flat belly. Her perky tits were full, she had no tattoos and no scars, just smooth light brown skin. He went to her first, kissing her warm lips softly. As he felt her respond, he kissed her harder, his tongue exploring her mouth. His large hand grabbed her soft heavy breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers.Smyth moved behind.
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It was one of the Médecins Sans Frontières nurses standing at the entrance of the corridor a few metres away. I think her name was Tabitha. She was holding her hand over her mouth, the other supporting her wrist. Tears streamed from her eyes and rippled over her fingers. Quickly wiping the tears and snot from my face, I spluttered, “What’s wrong?” She shook her head and stifled another sob. Then composing herself, she lowered her hands and whined softly in a heavy French, or maybe Belgian accent, “I hate to see a man cry.” “I’m not a man,” I blurted out, the utter humiliation seizing me in undignified sorrow. I bawled into my knees, unable to keep myself from wailing like a banshee. I felt the moist heat of her presence as she crouched down beside me and draped her left arm across my back. “Shhh,” she soothed in my ear, placing her other hand on my knee. “Men don’t do that,” I sobbed hysterically. “Men don’t let that happen.” I had us at the fence line. Our weapons aimed, fingers on.

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