Soon a large panel truck arrived, its precious cargo yet more refugees, with varying degrees of dark skin and wearing garb typical of North Africa, he supposed. Some too, he guessed, would be from Syria, though the journey over so many kilometers of rough sea—to the western shore of Italy—seemed unimaginable.

He heard, in his mind’s ear, the creak of boards of the frail ships, the thump of the Zodiac boat pontoons, the unsteady stutter of struggling motors, the cries of babies, the slap of waves, the call of birds, the hiss and flutter of wind. Eyes closed, shivering as he was momentarily overwhelmed by hearing sounds he could not hear. He calmed and wiped the sweat, putting away the tissue. See, he thought to Her, I’m being careful.

Always, for his muse.

The thirty-odd refugees disembarked from the newly arrived truck and stood near the entrance to the camp, under the eyes of two guards. No machine guns. Just white leather holsters containing pistols on lanyards. They were directing the arrivees into a processing station—a long, low table where four aid workers sat, over clipboards and laptops.

Stefan moved closer yet. It was so crowded that no one paid him any mind. He was near to a couple who stood sullen and exhausted looking—nearly as tired as the two-year-old child asleep in the mother’s arms. They stepped to the table and the husband—they wore wedding rings—said, “Khaled Jabril.” A nod to his wife. “Fatima.” Then he brushed the child’s hair. “Muna.”

“I’m Rania Tasso,” said the woman they stood before. Heads nodded, but no hands were shaken.

Khaled was dressed Western—jeans and a counterfeit Hugo Boss T-shirt. Fatima was scarfed and wore a long-sleeve tunic, but was also in jeans. They both had running shoes. The little girl was in a costume, yellow. Some Disney character.

The woman reviewing their passports, Rania, had dark-red hair, done in a double braid, down to the small of her back. The radio on her hip and badge dangling from her neck meant she was an employee of the organization. After some minutes of watching her, Stefan decided she was very senior, perhaps the director of the camp. She was attractive. Her nose was Romanesque and her skin an olive shade that suggested her Italian ancestry was mixed with Greek or perhaps Tunisian.

The refugees answered questions. And, oh my, Stefan did not like Fatima’s voice one bit. “Vocal fry,” the tone was called—a condition afflicting more women than men, he believed. A rasping, growling quality to the voice.

She spoke more words.

Oh, he didn’t like that sound at all.

Rania typed some data into the computer. She wrote some information—in Arabic—on a three-by-five card and handed it to Fatima, who then asked some questions. She was frowning. It was almost as if she, here by the grace of the country, were interviewing Rania about her intentions and worth.

The director answered patiently.

Fatima began to speak again, but her husband, Khaled, spoke softly to her—he had quite the pleasant baritone. Fatima fell silent and nodded. She said something else, which Stefan took to be words of apology.