Halfway down the path, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a bare-chested teenage boy holding a steel bowl of pink soup up to my face. Chelimo stepped in front of me and gently pushed the bowl away. The morning air was already hot. I stopped walking and I felt two flies land on the back of my neck. The teenage boy stood with his pink soup in hand and repeated his question in Pokot. They were the about same height and were probably distant cousins. It was strange to see them standing face to face, two children separated by a string of unlikely events thirty years ago. Michael had found John. That was the reason why Chelimo was wearing a clean dress, could read and write, and had a Facebook account. And this boy’s father had wandered the desert, taken a wife, and now his child was wrapped in a thorn-snagged cloth living on whatever was in this pink soup. “He wants to know if you want to see him make blood soup,” she said to me. “You can’t drink it, but it’s fun to watch.” Before I could answer, she took me by the hand and led me to a cow pen made of wrapped thorn branches. Inside the pen, three boys hunched over a struggling cow. They waved at me. The expressions on their faces reminded me of the look kids have on the playground when they shout “Watch me!” before doing a somersault. One of the boys held a bow and arrow drawn taught, the second held the cow’s head, and the third stretched the skin from the cow’s neck. Then the first boy released his arrow and sent it plunging through the cow’s neck. Instantly, the cow bucked and the boys struggled to steady it. Blood poured from its neck like water from a hose. When they finally steadied the cow, they filled a half-gallon jug with ruby liquid. Blood soup. “Why is it pink?” I asked, shaking an anti-anxiety pill into my dirty palm. “They mix it with milk.” She chuckled as a boy who had been bucked into a cow pie stood up with a look of disgust. “But don’t drink it or you’ll get sick. My father drank it last night to prove that he was still a Pokot warrior, but he has been throwing up this morning.” Then she burst out laughing the way all teenage girls do when they talk about the silly boys in their lives.