The train conductor paced the platform, taking hurried puffs on a cigarette, while angels hovered over the only country not on any map. Whenever an angel swooped down, the landscape turned a sludgy gray, a color euphemistically referred to as Lighthouse Shadow. Sitting blinking in a seat by the window, I felt as if someone else’s faulty heart had been transplanted in my chest. I was that anxious for the train to resume moving. My face must have betrayed what I was thinking: Every day 200,000 people—more or less—die. Some heard distinct words; others, only a high squeal. Still others experienced sudden difficulty in finding their way around. As the train pulled out, I took a last look back. Mothers and children, men and beasts, hung from the branches of trees where a roaring wind had blown them.