The sound was at once distressingly familiar and jarringly out of place.
Kofi Wilson had heard gunfire every day of the 15 months he spent in Libya during a harrowing journey to Europe — but never in more than a year since he arrived in Macerata, a tranquil little city of cobblestone streets and handsome blond-brick plazas nestled in the craggy central Italian hills.
“It’s not a gunshot, not here,” Wilson told a friend after hearing the first crack.
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