Where Little Ones Cry - Tragic stories from war-torn Liberia

He crept closer to the unguarded pot. His quick glances toward the hut facing the fire did not detect movement. The naked boy was not older than three. Still a toddler, really.

The aroma of the cooking rice drew him within reach of the pot. Boy felt around the fire with his tiny hands. Circling the fire, his fingers fumbled with several large stones.

Ah! Someone had left a small plate. As Boy's eyes distinguished it in the dim light of the glowing coals, he reached for it. Hastily, he moved his fingers around the tin plate. He felt the middle.

There was nothing on the plate. Only a slight stickiness indicated food had been there.

Boy lifted the plate and began licking where his fingers had detected the faintest bit of food. His little tongue darted out, trying to get the flavor of whatever had been there. With a whimper of frustration, Boy let the plate fall to the ground.

As the plate clattered to the hard-packed dirt, a scuffling noise came from within the hut.

Wayo! a woman's voice called out. Who that? By the time the woman had come to investigate the noise, Boy had disappeared into the shadows, darting away on fear-quieted feet.