SOMETIME IN MY early 305, while I chased after stories as a reporter in New York City, exposed child labor in post-Katrina New Orleans, and probed injustices against Haitians in the sugarcane fields of the Dominican Republic, the entire muscle mass between my spine and left shoulder hardened into a series of knots, like rosary beads. The sound of a city bus or idling car, both common targets of thieves, triggered a tightening deep in my pelvis, the first chakra-all about self-preservation. Doa Francisca's words swept me along with her tale: into the jungle where she searched for help; to the moment when her baby died of hunger in her arms after her breast failed; to the day when she had to bury the tiny girl in the mountains.
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