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I want to vent, to scream. But then there’s that nagging question: Vent to whom? Despite the fact that it has been months since we’ve shared a bed, and that we’ve never been in the territory of “I love you,” D comes to mind. I text him:

Here with your mining buddies on the terrace at Orchid.

Found out four people I met last year were killed.

Back in my room, it’s late. I’m bent over the mildew-ringed bathtub, washing my only outfit, jeans and a T-shirt that have grown thick with road dust and sweat. I wring the clothes out and prop them on the chair, knowing they’ll likely be more wet than damp by morning, but perhaps dry by noon.

I climb inside my cocoon, pull down the mosquito net, tuck it under the mattress. I lie down, carefully positioning myself in the middle of the bed so as not to touch the net. I’m still aching. I stare at the dimly glowing light bulb. I run my fingers across the sheets. They always feel damp here. I study the little rips and mended tears in the net, and I start to cry.

My BlackBerry rings.

D.

I could pick up. I could cry into the phone. I could tell him everything. A piece of me would rather not. In fact, all of me would rather not. I won’t.

But I pick up anyway.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” I say quietly, my voice shaking.

“How are you?”

I let out a long sigh, crying.

“That’s what I thought. That’s why I called.”

I spill it. All of it. The massacre. The Congolese Army. The assassinations. And my deepest doubts. “What am I doing here? They live in hell and I give them peanuts. . . .”

I can’t talk anymore. I just cry.

D says, “Someone has to do it. Someone has to be a witness.”

I cry for a long time. Then D tells me about his beautiful new office. His view of the trees. He brings up the cabin we stayed in on the bay. He reminds me of the wonderful time we had; it’s as if he is coaxing me back to life with his itemized list of little joys. Cradling the phone, curled under my mosquito net, we talk longer than anyone should from America to Congo.

I WAKE UP EARLY, my stomach acidic and nervous. We are scheduled to go to Kaniola today. When I went before, I was too numb and off-guard to be scared. Not so this time. I know what’s coming and I’m petrified.

I WANT TO BARK at one of my Pakistani Army UN escorts, “Stand down, soldier!” He is pointing his gun squarely at a seven-year-old boy. The little guy’s only infraction was to move a few steps closer to me after we exchanged jambos.

We are in Kaniola at the trailhead of what Major Vikram referred to as The Last Walk, a point marked by the rusty, bullet-ridden sign on the side of the road that matches my video-print photos. Never mind my camera being mistaken for a gun. We have real guns this time, and a crew of five armed and jumpy men committed to securing my perimeter. They’ve only been stationed here in Congo for a few days and this is their first visit to Kaniola. They’ve heard the stories. But they don’t quite grasp the security threats on hand; they’re drawing on military exercises that don’t apply here. There are no child suicide-bombers in Kaniola. The Interahamwe don’t hide in thatched roofs waiting to pounce. They announce themselves and kill openly here, so there is no point in harassing children who just want to say hi. I’m not going to let the ambiguity of who’s in charge get in my way. I’m the only one who has been here before. I smile at my security guy and kindly request, “Don’t point the gun at children, please.”

He eases off the boy. But as we set out on our walk through the stunning, now-familiar valley, their tense, by-the-letter approach continues. One stays in front, another in back, both with guns poised for action. In theory, having guns should make us safer, but in a place like this, I’m not sure if guns protect or provoke. They do not endear us to the locals. We approach a group of young men, ranging in age from late teens to early twenties. Though they gather and tolerate my trigger-happy guards, who are stalking