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He only had time to grab his son and run. Together, they ran with the clothes on their back and their photo identification cards stuffed hastily in his pocket. They didn’t even have time to say goodbye.

Then again, there wasn’t much to say goodbye to. Behind them was fire, merciless and consuming, devouring each house like a starving dragon. Behind them were bodies, riddled with bullets, each hole dripping bloody dreams and hopes. Behind them were the graves of his wife and daughter, the screams of their last moments forever playing in his ears like a broken record. 

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