An interpreter I’ve often used lost both legs and an eye this morning when the car he was traveling in ran over an explosive device—one of those IEDs you say you’ve been reading so much about. I went by his house to give some money to his family. With him unable to work, his wife and children will have a hard go of it. I met them a few months ago and spent an afternoon with his sons helping build a jump for the skateboard they’d been given by a homebound marine. Their mother fussed about the sport’s danger to her boys, but her husband and I laughed it off. “What’s the worst that could happen?” we said. Skinned knees, sprained fingers, they were nothing compared to what we’ve seen. The oldest boy is twelve. When I visited today, I gave him and his little brother all the chocolate and gum left from the last package my mother sent. That’s all I had for this now traumatized family: a fistful of cash and another of foil-wrapped sweets. The twelve-year-old thanked me politely, though, then drew me aside.
