“Dobre dien, sleepyhead.” Jeffrey awoke me from a Sunday afternoon nap. An American and the director of our project, Jeffrey was a fluent Russian speaker. “Nazir and his wife are upstairs with their son. They want you to examine him.”
Where was I? It came back quickly—on mission with Doctors Without Borders in Chechnya. We supplied physicians in war-torn hospitals with medications and equipment and recorded the number of land-mine and gunshot victims. I’d come for an adventure, restless with my plush American life. However, I’d begun to wonder if I could make any difference.