The following sobering piece comes from the Fruin family currently serving as missionaries in Mexico:
It was dusk on Friday evening as we were driving up the dirt road that we call the short-cut to our home that sits in the middle of a ranch in northern Mexico. We were on an uphill, curving section that is very stony and rutted. The combination of road conditions and deep shadows required my undivided focus. “Watch out,” cried my wife, “I think that’s a man!” I had not seen anything but, directed by her gaze, I saw what did indeed appear to be a man just beside the right front corner of our full sized van. His dingy clothing served as camouflage on the unpaved road. I had just missed putting our wheel directly through his body lengthwise. He did not jump up. He did not dodge. “He must be passed out,” I thought to myself. He had moved ever so slightly assuring me he was not dead. The terror of nearly accidentally killing someone began to fade and, as will happen at times like these, was replaced by anger and indignation. “Some fool had become so inebriated that he passed out in the middle of the road,” I reasoned.
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