A jagged, raspy shriek tore through the morning fog, shattering the silence of 4:30 a.m., long before dawn. You sit on your straw mattress. You clasp your hands together and pray to a god you're not sure you believe in. You lie there until light filters through the windows covered with oil paper, since your family can’t afford glass. It could have been twenty minutes or four hours; there was no way to tell in that vacuum of a room.