I know that boy. His name is Idrissa Sawadogo, he is twenty-three years old, he comes from the village of Kongo twenty kilometers from Djibo, his mother grows sorghum on seven small fields at the edge of the track that goes to Mali. They took him in January of two thousand and twenty-four, one morning, with six others from the village. They had said it was volunteer service. They had made them sign. Idrissa had put his cross, because he could not write.

The checkpoint where I find him is twenty-two kilometers from Djibo, on the red track that cuts through the savanna of the Soum. A patch of beaten earth, a punctured sheet-metal drum that stands as sentry, a mahogany bench where the three older VDPs sit spitting watermelon seeds. Volontaires pour la Défense de la Patrie, that is what they call them. Idrissa is one of them. Idrissa stands beside the drum, the rifle slung across, the sling adjusted for someone else, because for Idrissa the rifle hangs below his belt and beats against his thigh when he walks. It is the fourth shift of the week. It is Tuesday.

On the radio you can hear the commander speaking from Bobo-Dioulasso. He speaks in fits, the device is old, the dying battery dies faster than usual and no one has the car to drive to Djibo to buy others. The commander asks who is on duty. Sory, the sergeant, replies "Idrissa Sawadogo, Boukary Ouedraogo, Mahamadou Tall, and me." The commander says something that cannot be heard. Sory repeats "received."

A woman passes with a cart. Thirty-five years old, peulh, dressed in indigo blue. On the cart two children. The little one, two years old, is holding his face with his hands. The older one, seven years old, is holding the little one by the shirt. The woman stops in front of the checkpoint. Mahamadou stops the cart with his foot.

"Where are you going." "To the hospital in Djibo, the little one has had a fever for three days, he has to see a doctor." "Where are you coming from." "From Tongomayel."

Mahamadou looks at Sory. Tongomayel has been in the red zone since February. Sory takes the radio, switches it on, reports. The commander on the radio says something, then something clearer, then something that can be heard: "Hold her."

Idrissa thinks about the sorghum. He thinks that in May in Kongo they begin to sow. He thinks of Boukary, of his brother Boukary whom they had called too, but Boukary had a leg crooked from birth, they had sent him back, he had stayed in the village, it was he who now sowed the sorghum for their mother. Idrissa thinks about the cart. Idrissa thinks that the little one is the same age his sister Aminata was when she died of malaria in two thousand and nine because they had not reached the hospital in Djibo in time.

The woman understands they are holding her. She climbs down from the cart. She picks the little one up in her arms. She pulls the older one by the hand. She begins to walk toward Djibo, leaves the cart.

Sory shouts "stop."

The woman does not stop.

Sory shouts a second time, in French: "arrête."

The woman walks faster.

On the radio the commander shouts "tirez."

Mahamadou raises his rifle, fires. Boukary, the other Boukary, raises his rifle, fires. Sory raises his rifle, fires. The woman falls. The little one falls. The older one runs. They shoot the older one too, they shoot him in the back, he falls after twelve steps. Three bodies remain on the red track.

Idrissa raises the rifle. He aims it. The barrel trembles, the stock beats against his shoulder, the loose sling slides down his arm. Idrissa lowers the rifle. He stands with the rifle in both hands, lowered, in front of the punctured drum.

Sory sees him. He says nothing.

Mahamadou and the other Boukary go toward the cart. Sory stays near the drum. He looks at Idrissa. Idrissa looks at Sory. For two seconds they look at each other. Then Sory turns, takes the radio, says "neutralized. Three."

The commander on the radio says "good work."

Three days later, at the camp in Djibo, in front of the commander's office, Sory tells Idrissa he is being transferred. "Kongoussi. You leave tomorrow morning, at five, the pick-up is here."

Kongoussi is the ambush zone. In March from Kongoussi four boys did not return, two were from Idrissa's village.

In the evening, before leaving, Idrissa goes to the dormitory. He takes a charcoal pencil from the pocket of the bunkmate. He writes on the lime-washed wall, with the handwriting of someone who cannot write well: Idrissa Sawadogo, Soum, sorghum. He puts the full stop. He puts the pencil on the side table. He lies down.

In the morning at five he gets on the pick-up. At Kongoussi the checkpoint is an identical patch of earth, with an identical drum, and a different bench. There are three VDPs he does not know. They introduce themselves. Idrissa introduces himself. He stands beside the drum. He takes the rifle off his shoulder, looks at it, adjusts the sling. The sling is long, adjusted for someone else. Idrissa adjusts it. He puts it back across his shoulder. Now the rifle hangs at his hip, at the right height. The sling is adjusted for him.