Staccato.

3

He spoke to me that morning. But never replied my question from last night.

I was distributing food to a little girl when she dropped it and cried. And Cheikh ran to her, craddling her in his arms.

And I saw why he couldn't leave. He cared too much. 

And as his gaze met mine, my stomach rumbled. The sound so familiar to all the starving African children.

What sounded like hunger was actually butterflies.