Should she call Rick? And tell him what? That she was likely suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress and thought the waiter served in Chukuwereije’s army? That she had mentally transposed the edge of a burn on his wrist into Chukuwereije’s brand? Besides, pulling a phone out during a state dinner was the height of rudeness. She glanced in the direction of the press area. She’d suffered enough at their hands. No way would she intentionally give them fodder.

Her father beckoned her from across the room with a single lift of a finger, and she set her water down, untouched, and joined him. She met the First Lady and her son, smiled for several photographs, and stepped to the side again as her father took the podium and spoke about the US support for the people of Katangela. He made no mention of the Green Beret team down the road who had come to aid in fighting the people bent on insurrection.

The constant flashes of the dozens of cameras dazzled her eyes, so she looked down or to the side, trying to avoid their strobes.

Finally, they went into the dining room, escaping the press and the cameras and the yelling of questions that went unanswered. Cynthia found herself seated next to Zalika on one side and the minister of the Cabinet of Health on the other. The wide table prevented her from conversing comfortably with the First Lady across from her.

As they served the first course, Cynthia tried to look at the wrists of the servers but never managed to catch a glimpse. Nervous energy hummed up and down her spine. What should she do?

Out of the eye of the press, she slipped her phone out of her purse and set it in her lap. As discreetly as possible, she powered it on and waited. She could feel it go through the various vibrations as it booted up. Five minutes later she had a break enough in the conversation and accessed her contacts, pulling up Rick’s number.

“Is everything okay, Doctor?” the health minister asked.

She smiled over at him. “Certainly.”

He gestured with his spoon. “Is the asparagus soup not to your liking?”

As much as she didn’t want to even try to eat, she picked up her spoon and took a small sip of the soup. “Mmm,” she said with a closed-lip smile. “Delicious.”

He nodded and turned the other direction. Cynthia stirred her soup to make it look as if she were eating. When a waiter appeared at her elbow, she jumped and dropped her spoon. It clattered against the side of the bowl. “Sorry,” she said. He took the dish away, and someone else placed a plate of horse mackerel in front of her.

She flaked off a small bite, then carefully chewed. Her stomach protested the presence of food, so she slowly sliced another piece off and just ran it through the sauce.