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MYITKYINA — It was nearly 10 a.m. here in Myanmar’s northernmost provincial capital. On the rutted streets below, church hymns competed with the clamor of roosters and motorbikes. The singing beckoned townsfolk dressed in their finest Sunday sarongs to join a Baptist service. But in the attic of a house overlooking the chapel, two addicts had found their own sanctuary. Their heroin was already half gone. Everything about them screamed addiction. The scratching. Ropey limbs. Eyes shellacked with yellow film.