As our boots make our way closer to the presidential tent and near the slope to the lake, the pungent smell becomes unbearable. The twins watch as I almost let out a puke down to the pasture below us. We freeze, holding our breath. 

A thick air falls on the three of us. 

Arif gasps. His hand flies to his chest: he holds it there, unmoving. A bullet had gone into his heart and he wanted to feel where the bleeding started. His face turns pale white, and his ...