Mr. Wills was almost certainly not the first of us killed in the desert by a pack of uniforms who wanted to play at hunting. But his death became a story. It had been seen and heard and shared by so many of us that we began to whisper his name across the sand. Every mouth changed the story’s shape a little: He was crying. No, he was stoic. No, he begged for mercy. No, he said, Do your worst. He fought to the end. Or his hands were tied. They came at him from behind and he never saw it coming. They came at him from the front and he stood his ground. With his last breath he called for his
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