Free Twilight by Brendan DuBois Page A

we can.”
    It was comforting to lie there in the darkness, talking to Miriam. “To what end? To deter future gunmen from slaughtering their neighbors during bad times? It hasn’t happened yet, either in this century or the last. And if it can happen here, in the homeland of the sole superpower …”
    There was a rustling noise as she rolled over on her side. “Ah, but how do you know? True, there have been killing fields aplenty these past decades, from Cambodia to the Congo to here. But if we hadn’t taken the time to prosecute the criminals, identify and bury the dead, and comfort the living, perhaps more gunmen would have risen up to kill their neighbors. In England. In France. Perhaps in my own country.”
    â€œPerhaps,” I said. “But sometimes it just seems futile.”
    Another sigh. “You’re getting too cynical, Samuel. Too cynical for such a young man.”
    â€œI’m not that young.”
    Another rustle of cloth. “You’re right. You are not too young, chronologically. But in everything else, compared to what I and the others have seen, you are still a young man.”
    It was my turn to shift in my sleeping bag. “Give me time. I’ll grow up.”
    â€œAh, this is true. You will grow up here, so fast. So fast.”
    Then she yawned. “Thank you for allowing me in here. Please, I have to get to sleep, all right?”

    â€œThat’s fine, Miriam. Just fine.”
    Then I was surprised by her touch, just a feather glance with her fingers across my brow, as she whispered, “Good night.” I wish they had reached a few inches lower, to touch my lips at least, but luck or whatever wasn’t with me tonight. I wanted so much to return the favor, maybe by gently stroking her cheek, but the events of the day crowded in upon me and I could all too easily imagine reaching out and poking her in her eye or ear. So I lay still.
    I wished I could say that the rest of the night was magical, that Miriam’s scent and gentle breathing relaxed and quietened me, but that didn’t happen. Dear Miriam was an even more restless sleeper than Sanjay, and she snored loudly for most of the night.
    But I didn’t think of leaving the tent, not once.
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    IN THE MORNING the lousy weather returned, penetrating drizzle accompanied by another heavy fog. By some unspoken agreement we stayed out of the house and the barn again, and ate breakfast standing up, wearing our yellow rain slickers, except for Charlie who was dressed in his Marine camouflage gear. Karen and Sanjay made a point of ignoring each other as we ate the hard rolls and drank the lukewarm tea. Peter stood beside me and said, “Who the hell do they think they are fooling?”
    â€œEach other, maybe,” I said.
    â€œHah.” He slurped noisily from the metal teacup and said, “I think people up on the ridge heard those two, they rutted so much.”
    â€œYeah,” I said, wishing that Peter would just go away.
    Then he said, “Hey, I saw who tumbled out of your tent this morning. Good on you. Just sleeping, or something more?”
    I tossed the tea on the ground, as close as I could make it to his feet without looking too obvious. “Piss off, will you?” I grunted and walked over to the tiny fire to try and warm up some, as Peter’s laughter followed me.
    Within minutes of our sparse breakfast Jean-Paul was on the satellite phone again, speaking in low tones in French to whoever was on the other end, either at the UN compound down south or to Geneva. I was impressed by how refreshed he looked. The rest of us, with the exception of Charlie, looked like we had spent a week hitchhiking along the Trans-Canadian Highway in the middle of a thunderstorm. But Jean-Paul looked like he had gotten a solid eight hours of sleep and a hot shower. He talked and smoked and waved his hands about as the rest of us packed away the gear, and I wondered