In the small village, along a busy dirt road that led to other villages, a puddle had formed. For a while, it held its ground against the sun that tugged at its brown-gray constitution, the cars, motorcycles and bikes that tracked it a few yards further along the road, the dogs that lapped at its edges and the children who sloshed in its muddy wonder.
A visitor to Haiti and the village outside Cap-Haitien, Adam Wainwright stood with a handful of friends and colleagues some 50 yards away. They’d driven for hours along roads like this and through villages like this, searching for the perfect place to construct their tiny miracle.