ABSTRACT
In the high Mojave Desert, a pale imitation of trauma brought memories of my grandfathers’ wars back to the surface. Except for the odd schoolyard fight, and getting beat up in a demonstration in Paris, I had managed to avoid anything remotely as violent as a battlefield. Yet on a desert hilltop, images of my grandfathers’ wars rose and merged with the heat, noise, and immediacy of the approaching battle below.
