Khrista allowed herself to think that it was nothing, that Aligoté had just slipped or dropped something. Just a little accident in the kitchen, nothing too worrisome. But when he didn’t call back to her as he always did—

“Father!” she cried out, bursting into the kitchen. In seconds she was kneeling by his side, confused and panicking, trying to figure out what was wrong, what to do first, how to ease his pain.

But Khrista was only 14, and not yet the cool, composed rebel leader she would become later in life.

“Help! Somebody call a doctor! Please!” she shouted helplessly, tears coming to her eyes as she tried to cradle her father’s struggling form.