Marie

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Two men lifted a child out of the dirt and laid him gently on the ocher gravel. His bloodied face was locked in a macabre expression of terror. His slender frame was stained with a paste of dirt and blood, the color of burnt umber or rusted metal. The boy looked no older than fifteen, a brief life aborted in the most wretched manner imaginable.
Cobalt Red: How the Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives
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