Throughout the conversation the boy’s sister never once raised her head. She shivered continually; she clutched her brother’s hand. The doctor, seeing Gini’s expression, intervened. He said a few words, then drew her back down the length of the ward, and into a corridor beyond. In the distance, somewhere, as always, guns boomed. The doctor was thin, bearded, about five years younger than she was. He looked at her closely.

“How long have you been here?”

“Three months. Nearly four.”

“Then listen to me. That boy will survive. So will his sister. Now that we have penicillin, his wound will heal.”

Gini looked back over her shoulder. Pascal, his face grim, was moving toward the boy’s end of the ward. She said: “Survive? He has no parents. No home. He’s ten years old. You saw his eyes.”

She covered her face with her hands. The young doctor continued to watch her quietly.

“Nonetheless. He’ll survive. You cannot get emotionally involved—you do realize that, don’t you?” He hesitated. “I never ask their circumstances. I prefer not to know their names. I just make sure they get bandages, medication, because otherwise, they’ll die. That’s my function. Your function—”

“Mine?” Gini jerked up to look at him. She was crying, and no longer cared who saw the tears. “My function? What in God’s name is my function? I feel useless—worse than useless. I feel like a voyeur.”

“That’s predictable. It will pass.” He glanced away, some sound outside catching his attention. There was the noise of running footsteps, a shout, then quiet. Moving away from the window, the doctor took her arm.

“You have a function,” he said. “Ask Pascal. You elicit sympathy. Indignation.” He gave her a cool glance. “Then people write checks. Politicians feel pressured. And over here”—he glanced around again, frowning—“we get the mercy flights. The relief doctors. The supplies. That’s your function. To write. So do it. Describe this godforsaken place. Make people see it. Describe that child.”

“It’s not enough.” Gini began to turn away. “It’s inadequate. You know that.”

“You have a better suggestion? Can you nurse? You have a medical degree?”

He continued speaking, Gini thought for a fraction of a second after that, though she could not hear his words. Swinging back toward him, she saw his face change as the air went dark. Something warm, moving fast, brushed her skin, broke them apart, picked them up as if they were weightless, and tossed them to the ground. There was a long, slow, wallowing sound, then that deep, sucking exhalation she had come to fear. She could hear the crush of masonry falling, then silence, then running footsteps, then screams.

Thirty seconds? Sixty seconds? She groped her way across the corridor, crawled to the entrance to the ward. Dust billowed, curled into her throat and eyes, then slowly began to thin and settle. One section of the ward was missing. The three beds at the far end of it were missing. The boy she had been with not five minutes earlier was gone, and so was his sister. For one long, silent moment of stupefaction and agony, she thought: and so is Pascal.