What's worse: to be idle while someone dies, or to be exiled and empty-handed?

Who cares about everyone? What about me?

"What did you do?" I scream. "You die, I die too."

I want people to come away from my book with questions. Questions about virtue and goodness. Not answers.

Don't you dare try to apologize." His voice shakes. "This is not something you can bandage with a word or two and some hugging, or something.

He moves his thumb in a slow circle over the back of my hand. It is meant to comfort me, but it frustrates me instead. I need to talk to him. I need to look at him.

Noise and activity are the refuges of the bereaved and the guilty.