“Thank you,” muttered the prince. “Thank you for explaining so well. You people can be very irritating sometimes.” He leaned back against the pile of stones and closed his eyes.

“You also,” said the woman softly, examining her teeth.

“You’re awake,” said someone close to his ear.

“Yes.”

There was the sound of a match being struck, two sparks, and then a sudden light. The boy held a matchstick between his fingers. With his other hand, he stroked the cat in his lap. Before the match burned out, Abu could see other people around them, sitting, standing, nursing wounds, lying full length.

The woman who had brought him there was lying down asleep.

“Where are we?” asked Abu in the dark.

Again the boy lit a match. It burned out, and he dropped it. When it was dark again, he said, “Picture it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fighting.”

Once again, Abu didn’t understand. It was as if two different languages shared the same vocabulary. He sat up in the dark and caressed his forehead with his fingertips.

“Picture it,” commanded the boy impatiently. He struck a third match, and Abu could see his imperious blue eyes, a man drinking from a bucket, other people looking at him.

“I don’t understand,” he said when the light was out.

“That’s right,” said the boy’s voice approvingly. “Confusion. Violence. Danger. Death. Picture death.”

“I can’t.”

“Neither can I. Neither can anyone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We are slaves to circumstances beyond our control,” said the boy’s voice in the dark.

“Can’t you make a light?”

“Of course.” The boy lit a fourth match. “My sister saved your life,” he said when it was dark again.

“I’m very grateful.”

“Picture now. Sunrise. The barbarians go away.”

“Look,” said Abu. “Couldn’t you please light some kind of lamp? Please?”

“No. The picture is unpleasant.”

“It’s hard for me to concentrate in the dark,” complained the prince.

“No light. I prefer it. We prefer it. Someone would have lit one otherwise. There is a lamp.”

“I know.”

“But this is not a happy time for us. Not a proud time. Some of us are hurt. Tell me: why did you come here?”

“I came to watch you dance. You invited me.”

“Yes. I danced for you. You promised me a gift, and I refused. Now I want something.”

“I brought you something.” Abu fumbled in his pockets as the boy struck a light. He had brought a purse filled with gold dollars, each one stamped with the head of the Beloved Angkhdt.

The light went out, and Abu felt the boy take one of the coins out of his palm. “What good is this?” he asked.

“It is more useful than guns.”

“For a biter. I don’t know how to use it. I have a simple mind. No, I want something. Not this. Don’t make me say it. Guess.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I mean I can’t guess.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said the boy. “I want to understand my life. Is that shameful? You can see why I don’t want a light.”