Nina had never tended a bullet wound before, but she knew the rules of antisepsis, and she’d stitched cuts, and as long as her patient remained unconscious she was certain she could save the dog. She flooded the wound with iodine, and then, once she was sure the edges were clean and no debris remained, she stitched it shut, quickly but carefully, all the while praying that Selva wouldn’t wake up until she was done.

The dog began to stir as she finished, and Rosa had to help hold her down as Nina bandaged the injury, but even once Selva awoke fully she didn’t fuss. Did she know they meant to help her? It had to be terribly painful, but she didn’t snap or bite, or even try to lick at the wound; fortunately it was far enough back on her shoulder that she couldn’t get at the sutures.

Carlo made up a bed for Selva on the floor by the hearth, and he lovingly held a bowl to her mouth so she might drink some water, and then he fed her little scraps of chicken that Rosa fished out of the leftover soup from dinner.

Their chores forgotten, they waited for Aldo and the boys to return from the fields, and for Nico to come home, and all the while Nina’s anger grew and grew until she was choking on it. Anger, and hatred, and worst of all the paralyzing sourness of fear. Zwerger had made her afraid, as he’d hoped to do, and he had terrorized the children and Rosa, and for what? To prove something to Nico? Or to her?

IT WAS DARK by the time Nico returned, exhausted after a long day of haying in his zia Nora’s fields. The children had gone to bed, reluctantly, and only after Nina had promised to stay with Selva all night. She was kneeling next to the animal, feeding her a little broth from a bowl, when the door creaked and Nico slipped in.

“What happened?” he asked. In an instant he was kneeling next to her, his head bent close to the dog’s head, letting her lick his face and snuffle at his ears.

“It was Zwerger. He shot her.”

“My God.”

“The bullet tore a gouge across her shoulder, and knocked her out cold, but I was able to stitch it before she woke up.”

“You were very brave, weren’t you?” he murmured to the dog, and she wagged her tail, feebly, as if she understood. “You were so brave. Yes, you were.”

“It was my fault.” Now he was home, home at last, and she had to tell him everything. He’d be upset, but she owed him the truth.

“How could it possibly have been your fault?”

“I was sitting under the olive tree, doing the mending, and I fell asleep. I only woke up when he drove into the courtyard.”