MMy name is Macedonia, and before we begin, there are a few things that you ought to know about me. The first is that I am one of the smallest and most insignificant countries in the world. Located in the southeastern region of Europe known as the Balkans, pretty much the only place you might have heard about me is in geography class. The second is that I am also one of the few nations that has managed to tick off every single one of my neighbors. For the record, that’s not because I’m unfriendly. Just… unlucky. You’ll catch on as we go. Just like the missionary family did.
The first time I met them was when they walked off the plane. They’d been traveling for almost twenty-four hours, with a sleep-deprived four-year-old no less, and weren’t exactly the perky bunch that most Americans are made out to be. James, the husband, was the first one down the stairs. He was young, early thirties or so, with a baseball cap that had been on his head so long that his hair seemed to have reshaped around it. As he looked around at the scenery, I followed his gaze. The gray concrete terminal, the barbed-wire fences, the weeds poking up out of the runway… crazy I know, but from his expression, I’d almost say he was disappointed. Either that or terrified.