The street is filled with the cacophony of war. Screams and gunfire reverberate around the squat mud-brick buildings. Some are gone, craters in their place. One building looms ahead, still standing among the piles of rubble. It’s small, rough window beckons you. You run towards it, hoping to find shelter from the raging combat. You reach the window and look inside, while bullets ping off the walls around you. It is a field hospital, full of screams and blood. Inside, under the window is a white sheet, like many of the other improvised body-bags. Five of the white coffins lie together, like resting sheep. However, one, in particular, catches your attention. It is smaller than the others, like a child. The stark white blanket is obscured in the middle by a macabre splotch of blood, fresh and crimson. Looking closer, you see that the patch is slowly growing, blood pumping out of the body and into the fabric. Small feet poke out of the bottom, fitted with tiny sandals. The body is of a child, It’s life slowly seeping out and saturating its cloth wrap. Fascinated by the body, you fail to notice the other two white-wrapped carcasses that have been added to the lineup by medical personnel.