The question washed over me as I slumped in my hard plastic chair. I had passed the day walking through a town where most homes lay in ruins and human remains were strewn across a field, a day spent looking over my shoulder for soldiers and melting in the 110-degree heat. My mind was as spent as my body.

Under an inky sky ablaze with stars, the type of night you see only in the rural world, I looked toward the man who asked the question and half-shrugged. Everyone including me, I said, thought Donald Trump was going to flame out long ago. And he hadn't. So what did I know?

At that point, I couldn't bear to talk about it anymore, so the two of us sat speechless for a time. Finally, my companion looked back at me and broke his silence. "It can't happen, can it?" he asked.

I had no answer then – March of this year – sitting in that ruined town in South Sudan.