It starts like a fire on a chilly night, keeps you alive, lights the darkness around you. But then it grows. The flames leap higher, until one day you can't swallow them any more. When you open your mouth, they shoot out and scorch everyone around you. Like the dragons in the old stories, the ones that never survive.

I was fourteen years old when it started, almost a man by Karenni standards. The only son of my Father. A brave man, the other villagers whispered about him. A quiet man. But different. I had learned the power of silence from Father; watched him stand quietly between two angry men until their clenched fists became open hands.

But Father was not there when the soldiers came to destroy our village. One of them laughed at Mother, my sisters, and me crouching by the bamboo grove. He tossed a lighted torch on the roof of our house, and I was changed forever.

"We have to go, Tooreh!" Mother cried, tugging my arm. "We must run. Now!"

The fire spread quickly. I caught my breath at the fierceness of it. I wanted to grab the gun out of the soldier's hand and make him beg for mercy. I wanted to knock him down with all my strength and pound at him with my fists. But I had promised Father I would leave everything when the time came. I squinted against the glow of the flames and memorized the features on the soldier's face. Then I forced myself to follow Mother, who was shouting to me from the rice paddies.

Behind us, another soldier set fire to the bamboo. I could hear it crackling and exploding like gunfire as we ran. I turned back for one last look at the grove my grandfather had planted. Like my father before me, I had fallen asleep to the music of rustling bamboo leaves. Now the bamboo, like us, was gone.

The soldiers wanted us to go. They threw stones at us, but half-heartedly, as though they didn't care if they hit us. This time they didn't need to capture any of us to build their roads or bridges. This time they only wanted the rice in our paddies. Father and I had sown the rice, tending the fields carefully until they were almost ready to harvest. The emerald-green paddies glowed like a sea of jewels in the twilight.

We left them behind, lost sight of our neighbors and relatives scattering in different directions, and disappeared into the dark tangle of trees. Run to the jungle, Father had told us. The jungle, dangerous at night, overgrown in the monsoon season, full of wild creatures hunting for prey. Mother had tried to keep me away from it, complaining each time I joined Father to hunt game and gather fruit. Now she, too, knew that the jungle was our only hope. It led through Karenni country all the way from Burma to Thailand, and shielded the secret paths to the refugee camps across the border, where Father was waiting for us.

We pushed deeper into it, staying close to the small stream that would join the river about an hour's walk away. When we reached the river, a stripe of silver moonlight shone across the water like an arrow pointing the way. Mother and the girls rested while I gathered bananas and coconuts for dinner.

"The baby's asleep," Mother said. "Let's sleep here, Tooreh. We'll walk all day tomorrow."

"We're not far enough away from the soldiers, Mother," I said. "We can't light a fire here. It's not safe."

"We'll bundle up, and we can hide in those rocks if anybody comes," Mother said, pointing to a pile of boulders on the bank. "Your sister's so tired. You must be, too. I'll keep watch and wake you at midnight."

I wrapped Briyamah tightly in her shawl. The nights were cool during the rainy season, even though the jungle steamed like a pot of rice by mid-morning. The ground by the river was damp and hard, covered with slippery teak leaves and small stones. Briyamah used my chest as a pillow, and I kept still so she could sleep.

I didn't want to remind Mother that we needed fire for more than just warmth. Tigers were rare in the jungle, but Father had seen wild elephants and had taught me to recognize the high-pitched cry of a hungry leopard. Fire would have kept us safe. The night grew ever darker, and the trees around us rustled as unseen creatures caught our scent. Each time one drew closer, I clutched my knife tightly.

A part of me almost wanted one of them to spring. Then I could release some of the fury inside of me; unleash the hatred that was making me want to kill. Our village had managed to escape the enemy's attention until now. For sixty years, they had been burning other villages, capturing other people, taking other land. But with the flinging of that torch and the taunts of those soldiers, the once-distant war had come home, setting my heart on fire along with the home I had loved.

In the darkness, Mother groped for my hand. Men were talking in the distance, their voices growing louder by the minute. Silently, desperately, we gathered our things and bolted for the pile of rocks. Mother wrapped the baby from head to toe in her shawl and crouched behind me. I put my arms around Briyamah. She was only seven, and barely awake, but she kept as still as the boulder in front of us.

They were marching on the far bank, laughing, coughing, talking in their language. I couldn't understand them, but Father would have. Why wasn't he here with us? How could I protect Mother and the girls on my own? My only weapons were a small knife and a long, sharpened bamboo pole that hung from my belt.

We waited for them to pass. I pictured myself wielding the pole, leaping out with a shout, knocking one of them down, then two, then three, the blade of my knife gleaming as I used it again and again. As they drew nearer, though, I closed my eyes and gathered my sister even closer...