My hands smell of rotted Pediasure. It has a mint-y tinge, not like the thrown-up smell of milk or fruit or cereal. But something more artificial; a man-made stink.
Lady
By Maralise Petersen
Identity
Becoming We
By Johanna Smith
AFTER A LONG seventy-two-hour flight, we landed in Addis Ababa at four o’clock in the morning. Mudgy with fatigue, we hired a taxi and careened through the desolate streets to our guest-house. Our loud knocking roused the elderly guard to the gate, and we made our way through the drive, up the stairs, and to our …