Jamsheed touched the edge of the frame near the image of a little girl who was no more than a happy blur as she ran after a ball. “Yes.”

“And … this is why we do what we do.”

I turned to him and saw a mix of thoughtful expressions play across his face. “It’s funny,” he said, “but I would have thought you would say something like, ‘this is why we fight.’”

“I know. That occurred to me,” I admitted, “but it isn’t the right way to say it. I’m not in this business to fight. Seeing these pictures … I don’t think you are, either. It’s not about the conflict. It’s about what it preserves and what it allows.”

Jamsheed nodded and went over to a tiny kitchenette and began filling a teapot with water. “I once knew a Sufi who said that anyone who goes to war is crazy. But … I don’t think he was exactly correct. I believe it is more accurate to say that anyone who wants to go to war is crazy.”

“That says it,” I agreed.

He put the kettle on the burner, then fetched a first aid kit and helped me clean and dress my wounds. He had to pick some window glass and wood splinters out of my scalp and back from when I had crashed out of my hotel room and onto the balcony while waltzing with the knight.

“You have a lot of scars already,” he said as he worked, “so these should blend in.”

“Hazards of the job.”

“Mm.”

I caught Jamsheed sniffing a few times as he worked, and it took me a moment to make the connection.

“Garlic,” I said.

“Yes.” He didn’t ask, though he clearly wanted to.

“Long, weird story. Probably best if I don’t share.”

He nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

“Do you do field work?” I asked.

“Not anymore.” He considered for a moment and then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled the cloth apart to reveal two scars. Bullet holes. “Souvenirs of an adventurous youth.”

I noticed that he had other scars. More than his share. Around his eyes, around his fingernails. He’d been beaten and very likely tortured at some point. He noticed me looking and offered the smallest of shrugs, but he didn’t comment.

When he was done picking out the last of the splinters, he showed me the bathroom and even turned on the shower for me. Before I closed the bathroom door, I asked, “Why don’t you retire? The world needs more artists.”

He shrugged. “The time isn’t right yet.”