On an autumn afternoon, a group of twelve hundred people was frantically dismantling tents on an open grassland.
The sunlight streamed through the sparse leaves, shining upon them, mingling with the water mist and spores in the air, bringing a hint of stifling warmth.
The children still laughed and played, helping the adults to roll up the tents, while some elderly villagers struggled to carry luggage or load it onto carts.
The swampy smell of grass lingered in the air, making it hard to breathe, and sweat trickled from people's armpits down to their waists, soaking their pants.
The sick villagers were carefully helped toward the carts, some still asleep, others coughing, their voices hoarse and weak.
The Child Soldiers and elders moved back and forth among the crowd, while coughs and the sounds of falling echoed across the grass.
Busak stood on a cart, directing everyone to move the luggage and tents.
At the front of the line, Horn frowned, contemplating the next move.
