Zoë stands up, almost falls. She kicks off her one shoe. Resting her hand on Apostoli’s head, she strokes his hair, which is matted with pomade and dust.

‘Aman, aman,’ she murmurs. Aman. The soul’s own word. There is nothing else to say.

‘Aman, vré Vangeli,’ Apostoli answers, and begins to sob.

Pavlo is behind them, sitting with his back against a carob tree. His face is a bisected mask: half drying blood, half bone-white skin, and two blood-flecked eyes staring, horrified, at the wreck of the car.

‘How are you, little one?’ At twenty-four, Pavlo is a year younger than her, but she still thinks of him as a boy. Aman … ‘Does it hurt?’ she says, kneeling down beside him among the hard, shiny carob pods.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Why did I have to go to Khalkis?’ He screws his eyes shut and begins to rock. It is so quiet that she can hear the bark of the tree creak against his back. ‘My arm’s fucked. I’ll never play again now.’

‘Och, your arm is fine.’ She takes his clenched left fist very carefully and makes him extend his fingers. ‘Look, stupid. It isn’t broken.’

‘It hurts like a bastard.’

‘A sprain. Remember what Mama said? A sprain hurts worse than a broken bone? How did she know that, eh?’ She clucks soothingly as her fingers run softly under his jacket: everything feels as it should. But Pavlo yelps. ‘I think you’ve broken a rib or two,’ Zoë tells him. ‘That’s nothing. Now let me look at your face.’

Pavlo jerks his head away. ‘Vangeli’s dead.’

‘Shush,’ she says, but her lip starts to tremble.

‘It’s my fault. I had to have that bouzouki, didn’t I? Why couldn’t I leave it alone?’

She cups his cheek in her palm. ‘Because you’re the best bouzouki player in Athens. It isn’t your fault there’s a war.’

‘Is it … is it broken, Zoë? Apostoli pulled me out. I don’t remember what happened to it.’ She frowns, but when she sees the look in his eyes, something between horror and pleading, she takes his good hand.

‘What do you want me to do, Pavlaki?’