The soldier leans through the car window and stares at me. He has the guileless but wary eyes of a child; he can’t be much more than 18. I’ve just crossed the border from Moldova into Ukraine and hit my first checkpoint. The soldier is slim because he is lithe and fit, but also because he hasn’t filled out yet. His chalky white face is flecked with traces of acne. He looks like he should be holding a gaming console, not an AK-47. The overall effect is of innocence hurriedly subsumed by the necessities of conflict.
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