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Even years later, when over and over again he tried to fit the pieces together to make sense of what had happened to him, Harry Davis would recall that early December evening in the African city at seven thousand feet altitude, only a few hundred miles shy of the equator. He would recall how in winter the sun plunged beyond the horizon on the hour promptly at 6 p.m. and darkness followed with the speed of a curtain dropping on a stage. And he could still feel the chill of the forty degree cold that as night fell descended upon the city with almost equal suddeness. T.N. Davey is a writer living in Washington, D.C.
