“One day I will join my parents,” the father said. “Soon, I hope. As soon as I have played my role in this chess match.”

“They both died for you.”

He turned away and swallowed.

Her chest felt as though it might explode for him. For her. She had lived through the same, hadn’t she? Her father had died for her above that box.

The father had found love. Love for Christ. In some ways, she had as well.

“What is it with death? Why is the world filled with so much violence? Everywhere you turn there is blood.”

He turned back to her. “In living we all eventually die. In dying we live. He has asked us to die. Take up your cross and follow me. Not a physical death necessarily, but to be perfectly honest, we of the West are far too enamored with our own flesh. Christ did not die to save us from a physical death.”

“That doesn’t remove the horror of death.”

“No. But our obsession with life is as evil. Who is the greater monster, the one who kills or the one who is obsessed with their own life? A good strategy by the dark side, don’t you think? How can a people terrified of death climb up on the cross willingly?”

The statement sounded absurd and Sherry wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“In the great match for the hearts of men, it isn’t who lives or dies that matters,” Petrus said. “It’s who wins the match. Who loves God. We each have our part to play. Do you know what the moral of my parents’ story is?”

She looked at him.

“The moral of the story is that only true, selfless love will prevail. No greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for a friend. Or a son. Or a stranger in a cell next to you.”

“Your parents died.”

“We all die. My parents defeated Karadzic. Their love set me free to do what it is I must do.”

“So do you think I’ve been brought to the jungle to die?” she asked.

He tilted his head down slightly. “Are you ready to die, Sherry?”

A ball of heat washed over her skull and swept down her spine. It was the way he asked the question.

Are you ready to die, Sherry?

No.

It all swam through her mind—her parents’ deaths, the father’s story, her own nightmares—they all swirled together to form this lump that swelled in her throat.

She stood and walked into the kitchen. “What’s there to eat?”

DAVID LUNOW handled the paper cup gingerly. Someone had told him that coffee grew acidic once its temperature fell below 170 degrees. He supposed real connoisseurs could gauge this with the dip of their tongue. All he ever managed was a blister and a curse. Either way, in his opinion, good coffee was always piping hot.