She helped to clear that fallen masonry, clawing at the powdery stone; she knew enough by now to know there was very little hope, and Pascal, safe, uninjured, working beside her, also knew this. When it was clear to them both that no miracle had occurred, he rose, drew her to her feet, and led her away.

Lying on that bed in the hotel room, back in Sarajevo, she tried to spell this out to him. She wanted to say: why? Why did the two doctors survive, and the nurse, and the other patients, and you and I? Why could that boy not have been spared, the boy and his sister? In the end, that was all she could say: one last, long, impotent why.

Pascal waited until she had finished speaking. His arms tightened around her. He wiped the tears from her cheeks and kissed her closed eyes.

“Why? Because it’s random,” he said at last, quietly. “Because it’s always random and arbitrary. An old woman will be spared, a young child will die. A soldier who raped two women the previous day will survive, and some innocent bystander will not. Gini, don’t try to find shape and meaning in this. There is none.”

“There’s no God.” With a sudden furious gesture she rose from the bed and turned away. “No God. Cannot be. I see that now.”

“Not one that I would want to worship. No.” Pascal watched her in silence. She began to weep bitterly, burying her face in her hands.

“I want that boy back,” Pascal heard her say. She choked on her words. “I want—that doctor said he’d survive. Pascal…” She raised her face and swung around to look at him. “How can you bear this? How can you? How can you look at these things, year after year? I thought—if I steeled myself—I could—” She broke off and bent her head. “I can’t—I think… I can’t hope anymore.”

At that, Pascal rose and again took her in his arms. He waited until the storm of weeping ceased, and she grew calmer.

“I love you,” he said, lifting her face to his.

“I love you, and I know that you love me. That boy—was loved. You will remember him. I will remember him. Isn’t there some hope there?”

His voice, and his face, were grave. Gini, looking up, met the steadiness of his gaze. Unbidden and unexpected, and for the first time in weeks, a physical longing for him stabbed up through her body. It was like a cut from a knife, and it made her ashamed. Fighting it, she rested her face against his chest and listened to the beat of his heart.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Pascal said, and he was right: he did know a great deal of what she was thinking, though not perhaps all. “It’s so fragile—yes? And love is no protection. Death could always be around the next corner, not five minutes away?”

“Yes. That. And—”

“No justice.” He kissed her bent head, then sighed. “Oh, Gini, don’t you see? This is what I was trying to warn you about. I knew this would happen to you. And it’s the hardest thing of all….”