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Early dawn, when fog hung low, soldiers of the Republic of Las Flores were alerted by a rattletrap donkey cart with tyre wheels coming up their hilly border outpost. The guard at the watch tower shone a powerful beam of light at the approaching people. There was a man, a woman and three kids. “Stay where you are!” The soldiers pointed their Kalashnikovs. The donkey cart halted. “We’re from the State of Alcazar,” said the man. “There is fighting in our land and we’re fleeing.” The soldiers informed the border lieutenant who stomped into the scene, looking rattled. Having to come just when his shift was ending and another officer was to relieve him was galling. “Alright, you,” the lieutenant glared at the man, “state your business.” The meek-looking man gaped at the scowling lieutenant. “Sir,” he replied timidly, “we’re from the State of Alcazar. There is fighting in our…