Staccato.

2

So Cheikh and I sat on the porch at midnight. The volunteer crew camp was still awake, busy and bustling, with the lights turned on and everything.

'Have you ever thought about coming with me? To America? All the food you want. All the water you can imagine. There wouldn't be a day that you would worry about your brothers and sisters and whether or not you'll live to see tomorrow.' I looked at him, a little too hopeful.

He looked back at me and shook his head, his pale lips moving to say a word and his skinny fingers raised.

But perhaps he was too weak to speak. Or he didn't wish to say anything.