But now she was back.

Aren’t you happy? It’s what you would have killed for, years ago.

On nights he couldn’t sleep, Kennet stood at the foot of the attic steps and contemplated going up. Slipping into Astrid’s room. Into her bed. Into her body.

But he couldn’t, because her baby was sleeping up there with her.

And I’ve killed too many mothers’ children already.

When Xandro was passed around the family, Kennet’s hands itched for a turn. The little boy was bursting with life and health and innocence and unadulterated joy. Kennet wanted to clasp it into his arms, bounce it, ruffle it, cuddle it and believe in the future.

But then he’d remember Chenogne and the things he did.

He remembered Fisha and the things people got away with.

And when Xandro was passed to him, he quickly found a reason to pass him on.

This isn’t for you.

Everything was different.

I’m different.

I’m forever changed.

He smoked too much during the day, and at night he thought about Fisha choosing a friend to be his flogger. Of other inmates choosing a friend to jump from the edge.

Of pushing tables under beams.

Of chocolate and cigarettes and dead people’s smiles filled with gold teeth.

Asleep, he dreamed of running through smoke, a mob of vengeful victims pursuing him.

Hangman’s coming.

Asleep or awake, his eyes couldn’t unsee. His ears couldn’t unhear. He couldn’t smell or taste and his mouth couldn’t speak nice things.

When Astrid touched her neckline, he wondered if she merely pitied him. That her gentle patience was how she’d treat a demented grandparent or slightly backward child.

Did I go insane and not realize it?

“Hello, Kennet,” said Elizabeth Vetter, shaking hands across the counter of her five-and-dime store. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Vetter.”

Her grip tightened sternly. “Call me Peach.”

He laughed. “I forgot you gave me permission.”

Now her other hand dropped on top of their grip and she peered at him. “You look like you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep in a month.”

“Let’s say the sleep hasn’t been sound.” A weird embarrassment made Kennet’s neck burn, as if he’d screwed up a ridiculously simple task.

“Bad dreams?” Peach’s eyes were soft and full of concern. No longer a tired widow, but the best, sweetest, kindest first grade teacher a boy could wish for. Before Kennet knew what was happening, he blurted out the recurring nightmare of being chased down by a mob. He skipped the detail of the Belgian civilians, and spared Peach the horrors of Mauthausen, but he conveyed the abject terror within the dream and how it woke him up in a yelling sweat.

“They’re chasing you,” Peach said. “And they’re armed? With what?”