Chapter 8 

I first met Joseph at a refugee camp in Meridia. The eastern region of the Nyara Republic was in turmoil at the time. Armed groups, driven by the scramble for mineral wealth and ethnic rivalries, regularly raided villages, forcing hundreds of thousands to seek sanctuary in major cities. 

When I arrived at the camp, several physicians were attending to a young girl. She had sustained injuries from an explosion, with shrapnel lodged in her ear canal. Her violent thrashing and piercing cries made the medical team hesitant to proceed. 

“Joseph!” someone called out. 

A tall figure stepped forward. After assessing the situation, he unexpectedly produced a deck of playing cards from his white coat and began performing sleight–of–hand tricks. The girl’s attention was immediately captured, her struggles ceasing, allowing the doctors their window of opportunity. 

As the metal fragment clinked into the surgical tray, the cards in Joseph’s hands had vanished, replaced by a delicate violet native to Azora. The girl gazed vonder, tugging at 

his sleeves in search of the disappeared deck, but found nothing. She burst into delighted giggles, pulling at her parents‘ clothing with excitement. 

Joseph presented the flower to the child and guided her grateful parents out of the medical tent. The scene was so striking that I couldn’t resist capturing it on my phone. The camera’s 

shutter caught his attention. He turned, slightly startled, and inquired in French, “We don’t see many new faces here. Where are you from?” 

“America,” I responded. 

His eyes brightened as he switched to English. “I’m Joseph. Currently stationed in Meridia.” 

“Where did you get that flower?” I asked, intrigued. Fresh blooms were a rare sight in the camp. 

He beamed with pride. “I grew it myself. Would you like to see?” 

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the next week flew by physical training, language review, story development, guide Coordination. Jackson kept texting from new numbers. 

[What did you mean that day?] [Don’t we have more to discuss?] [Sara apologizes for what happened.] [Where are you?] 

I ignored them all. 

The day before departure, he messaged: “Wedding’s tomorrow. Will you come?” 

I snapped my SIM card, grabbed 

e, and headed to the airport. 

Sunlight streamed through the window 

we took off. From here to Nyara’s capital, there 

were no direct flights. I’d transfer in the Saharah Kingdom – almost twenty hours total. Time enough for memories. 

Pulling down the airline eye mask, I whispered: “Joseph, I’m coming back. I miss you so 

much.” 

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flourished 

Following him to his quarters, I discovered an ingenious garden he had crafted from salvaged materials – foam containers, plastic bottles, and broken tiles. The space with local violets, daisy, tropical orchids, and native azaleas. 

“What made you decide to grow these?” I asked. 

He casually propped his feet on the table, responding with quiet conviction, “Because flowers bring joy.” 

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Noting my puzzled expression, he let out a soft laugh. “You’re probably thinking food, clean water, and medicine should take priority, and flowers are an unnecessary luxury, right?” 

I nodded. 

His voice grew gentle but resolute. “Everything here pushes people to forget beauty, but flowers remind them they’re alive – that there’s still something worth anticipating. Where there’s hope, there’s life.” A confident smile played across his features as he winked. “That’s why flowers matter.” 

His optimism and passion radiated like a beacon, resonating deeply within me. I found myself transfixed by his vibrant spirit. 

Being the only two from US in the entire camp, we naturally gravitated toward each other. Contrary to my initial impression, Joseph was fiercely dedicated to his work. He shared comprehensive data on casualties and treatments, and even guided me through my first 

surgical procedure – a successful emergency cesarean delivery. 

Later, he noticed an alarming pattern in AIDS–related deaths at the camp. “We’ve been 

distributing antiretrovirals, yet the mortality rate keeps climbing…” 

“That doesn’t add up unless they’re not taking the medication,” I observed. 

“Let me investigate,” I volunteered. 

After interviewing numerous refugees, I uncovered a disturbing truth: nearly all distributed medications, not just antiretrovirals, were being traded on the black market. Dealers would exchange bags of moldy cornmeal for these life–saving drugs because the refugees‘ immediate need to feed their families outweighed all other concerns. 

Joseph and I risked our safety to alert the United Nations, triggering international media 

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coverage. The UN World Food Programme mobilized swiftly in response. When the relief convoy finally arrived, an unprecedented wave of jubilation swept through the camp. 

We worked tirelessly, treating the sick and distributing supplies until exhaustion overtook us. After handing the final sack of potatoes to a mother cradling her infant, Joseph and I collapsed against a truck’s side panel. 

He turned to me, his smile as brilliant as the morning sun. “Zoey, thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“Before you arrived, I could only watch helplessly as they suffered. You showed me purpose and helped the world see both them and us.” 

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