Right away as the fighting intensified the support tendrils of the octopus we had become proved capable of extremes.  Soaring heights of had helped, even just a little bit to deep, dark recesses where thoughts of suicide are not even necessary--you can feel like the walking dead.  It's out beyond ethics at that point because the group (i.e, nation) is calling the shots and the truths don't match up to Victory toasts and well-wishes from "home".

     "I spit at him for you," the girlish woman hissed.  She'd stopped short of walking up on the conversation.  The well kept Officer was surpressing information about just how many had been raped.  Behind the tall bush the girlish woman rubbed her abdomen and said in thickly accented English, "I knew you Americans would find them out the same thing like ours." 

     "We've got people that made it stop.  And they will pay the cost." 

     "Abortions?" 

     "Apparently it's a choice."

     Back at home camp one of our besties had not been raped but misjudged her "moon cycle" and was miserably pregnant.  Our box of food from a weekly trek to a nearby village had very little in it to help the poor woman.  Some "warming pills" and a new fangled disposable breast pump.  "What should I do with these?" The father held up the manna from heaven and asked.  "Okay, okay, I started her own box of goodies!" Our girl-muscle said without looking up from an anatomy book.  "Oh, she gets the brownies I see!" The man peeked through the things in her box.  "Get yer socks up here with ours," the expecting mama indicated the pole of roasting over the fire socks. 

     "And swap your belt for one that fits better.  These come from friends living farther up the mountain."