The bombs started going off the day we arrived in Nepal, our seventh country. At first it was just a vague rumor, just a murmur between our quiet Nepalese hosts, but by nightfall the flames were licking at our heels. Through earnest phrases of broken English, we learned that Maoist terrorists occasionally attack Nepal’s capitol, Katmandu, where we were now staying; in fact, it’s almost routine for the common citizen. Quite unintentionally, we arrived on the first day of a ferocious five-day attack. The terrorists demanded that no one drive on the streets. No children attend school. No one go to work. They wanted to shut down the city.

Many complied. Many refused. But the consequences were dear and frighteningly close. The military literally poured into the streets. We had to hide our license plate numbers with sheets of white paper, so that the terrorists didn’t take note of it and bomb our car later. Turning on the TV that evening, we watched almost every place we’d visited throughout the day burn through pillars of black smoke. The pattern was oddly consistent: it was as though they were trying to hit us, specifically, but kept barely missing. The next morning, we called at 10am to confirm an 11am meeting, only to discover that the place we were supposed to meet at had just been bombed, torched, and thoroughly destroyed. I saw my mother’s mouth hang open.

I had hoped for danger, but this was getting out of hand.

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