“This was 1991,” she continued. “We were just realizing how bad HIV/AIDS was then. The virus had gone undetected for decades. It was spreading quickly in the late eighties and early nineties. Millions around the world were infected, most with no idea. They lived for years, often decades, without symptoms, spreading it unknowingly to their spouses and others. The virus was deadly for 99% of those who contracted it. The only available treatment merely slowed the virus’s spread within the body.

“It was very brave what Andrew was doing. Visiting these towns and villages, standing in a room, telling the people assembled that their neighbors were dying of a deadly disease—and that they might also be infected. But we had to do it. It was the only hope of stopping the pandemic.”

“You were part of the effort too?” Peyton asked.

Charlotte nodded. “I was in Kampala. Waiting for him to return.”

The video switched to a scene inside a ramshackle building. Ugandans sat on worn wooden benches, painted white walls peeling behind them. Two ceiling fans buzzed overhead, and the audience fanned themselves as they waited. It reminded Peyton of a rural church in America’s Deep South, Alabama or Mississippi perhaps. The analogy was apt; the assembled were disciples of a sort. These were community leaders—doctors, nurses, police officers, teachers, family planning association workers, resistance committee members, and village elders—gathered to hear a message that could determine whether the people who depended on them lived or died…

The Ugandan Ministry of Health had told the crowd only that they were to receive a critical announcement regarding public health and safety. Like other places Andrew had visited, the residents of Kapchorwa district had turned out en masse; over a hundred people filled the room. Those arriving late, after the benches had filled, stood at the back. Andrew waited at the front, where the collapsible lectern he carried around the country had been set up. It was his pulpit. To the credit of those assembled, not many had stared at him when they came in. Their eyes had lingered only a second or two on the tall white man, and many had averted their eyes when they saw his prosthetic left arm.

The congregation grew quiet when the district administrator cleared his throat and stepped up to the mic. His name was Akia, and he spoke in heavily accented English.