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Present Day

“Connor, can you examine the patient in room three for me? A little boy with a rash. I’m needed in the staging area.” Declan, the best surgeon in the Rockford Memorial Hospital emergency department, made the request of Connor and he was already hurrying away from the nurse’s station.

“Get right on it, bro,” he called to Declan’s retreating back, knowing his brother expected to be obeyed, and wasn’t asking permission. He picked up the chart Dec dropped in front of him.

“Older brother still bossing you around?” Kelly Jenkins, a top-notch ER nurse, asked with a smile. She’d been giving him a lot of those lately. Every time she did, he thought of another smile meant to entice and it broke his heart all over again.

“Yeah. I don’t mind. Do you have any siblings?”

“An only child.”

“Lucky you.” Though he didn’t mean it, he thought as he walked to room three. His family was everything to him and had been there for him during the worst time in his life. 

The reason for that worst time kept him from asking beautiful, blond Kelly for a date. In the last two months since Callandra Gentileschi sought him out in D.C., he’d been unable to shake the notion that he could be with her now. But he’d said no. After what happened to him the first time she left, a reconciliation was too big a risk.

A nurse accompanied him. Drawing open the curtain, he found his patient, a slight boy with black hair and eyes that shone with concern. “Hey there. I’m Dr. Marino. You’re Paulie?”

“Uh-huh.”

He transferred his gaze to the quiet woman next to the boy. “Hello, Mrs....” He looked down at the chart. “Mrs. Fong.”

“Hello. Thank you for seeing us, doctor.” She spoke English well.

“I understand you have a rash, Paulie.”

Paulie nodded. Connor noticed he held his mother’s hand.

“How long have you had it?”

“Years.” The woman spoke for her son. “Doctors did tests. Told us different things, gave him various treatments. But nothing worked. Today, he woke up unable to stop scratching. He has sores from it.”

“I’m glad you brought him in.” After washing his hands and donning blue gloves, he walked to the side of the bed and gestured to Paulie’s hand. “May I?”

The boy nodded. On his wrists were runny, raw abrasions. He pulled back the sheets. The same on his legs. “Could you turn over?” The sores on his back weren’t as vicious, more than likely because he couldn’t scratch there.

He asked Mrs. Fong, “Did you get your pediatrician’s records for what’s been tested?”

“No.”

“Will you consent to releasing them?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll send a nurse in with the paperwork. In any case, we’ll run a series of our own tests here.” He said to Paulie, “Meanwhile, we’ll give you some steroids that should clear this up enough so the rash is tolerable. We’ll also apply topical cortisone cream.”

The boy’s eyes filled. “It hurts. I want to scratch.”

“No, Paulie, you can’t. But that itching will stop, soon, I promise.” He spoke to the nurse who’d come in when he did. “Could you get cold compresses? Apply them to his arms and legs and spread a larger one under him for his back. After ten minutes, put cream on him. I’ll order the tests.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He left the room, filled out a form and handed the clipboard to Kelly behind the desk. “Would you help his mother get the boy’s records from his doctor? The name’s on the intake form. I’ll be back in ten minutes to see how he’s doing.”

“Of course.”

Connor walked down the hall to an office. The room was empty and he went to the computer. He’d seen virulent rashes in Syria, but this was different. He planned to search the medical textbooks for comparable ones. He hoped this three-prong approach could help the boy.

Syria, 18 months ago

Heat consumed him as he walked into the hut. Connor had been sweating all day from the relentless sun beating down on the unsubstantial roof. As it was only June, the worst was yet to come. In December, the opposite happened, and it was cold here. The conditions in medical outposts kept getting worse with the constant bombings. And even though he’d been in Syria six months, he still wasn’t used to how the weather drained him or chilled him depending on the season.

 Five boys sat on a cot next to each other in the exam room to greet him in this tiny village on the outskirts of Aleppo. “ As-salāmu ʿalaykum.”

The children responded in kind.

He picked up one boy’s arm and winced. The angry sores oozed with pus. He pointed to the boy’s wound area and the other four boys lifted arms affected by the same rash. He could tell this wasn’t poison ivy, impetigo, fungus or shingles. What the hell was it?

“Bug bites.” The words came from behind him. He turned to see a vision amidst all the squalor and sickness. Black as night hair, pulled back in thick knots. Raven brows arching over huge nearly black eyes. “I said those are bug bites. I had a rash of them, pardon the pun, on the Eastern side of the city.”

“Ah. Thanks.”

“A salve of...” She went on to give him the ingredients but he was distracted by her husky voice. “Doctor, are you listening to me?”

“Um, no. Who are you?”

“Calla Gentileschi. Dr. Calla Gentileschi. I’ve been transferred to your area.”

“How do you pronounce your last name again?”

“In Italian, it’s Gen-tee-less-ski. But most Americas use till for the second syllable.” She smiled. “We’re from a sovereign state off the coast of Italy.”

“You don’t have an accent.”

“Our schools teach English in addition to Italian.”

“And you came to this village to help out?”

“Yes. You lost some personnel this week, I understand.”

“We did.” They’d put in their time for the grueling work. Connor himself had signed on for a year.

She said, “I brought my translator, too.”

“Oh, thank God. I’m drowning here. And not being able to communicate is part of the reason.”

“His name is Razim. He’ll be right in...oh, here he is.”

A tall, skinny Arab man walked up to her. Razim had dark hair like the beautiful doctor and sported even darker eyes. He said to her, “I cannot find the supervisor.” His English was accented but perfect.

She smiled at the young man and he smiled back. “Razim, this is Doctor...what’s your name?”

“Marino.” Connor held out his hand. “Connor Marino.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Supervisor’s here,” someone called from outside.

“I will be right back.” This from Razim before he left them.

“Where are your supplies?” Dr. Gentileschi asked. “I’ll make the salve for you. I’m assuming you’re equipped like we were and have the materials on hand.”

“We got restocked yesterday. We were lucky the planes got in.” He couldn’t help but grin at her. “But I should learn, so come on, I’ll show you where the room is.”

He yelled to a nurse across the way. “Could you keep an eye on these guys while I make a lotion?”

The nurse stepped to the tables.

He led Dr. Gentileschi to the back and unlocked the storage room, which was the size of his walk-in closet back home. It held medical devices, drugs, vaccines and even condoms to distribute to the men here.

The door slammed behind them.

Connor grabbed onto the woman.

The room shook!

Again. And again.

She clutched at him.

Silence.

A cacophony of noise exploded.

They both startled.

It lasted only about a minute. Dirt and concrete rained down on them. She sneezed and Connor coughed.

She looked at him. “An attack, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no. Razim is out there.”

Connor whipped open the door and they both raced through it. Shambles. Noise from around them: some shouts, some crying, some low and mournful moans spreading over the whole compound. The concrete and dirt had formed a small hill separating them from the treatment area. Connor leaned down. “The debris is hot. Be careful.” He took her hand as they climbed over it only to find nails, and glass, and other rubble.

“Those were barrel bombs,” she said as she went with him.

They finally got back to the examining area.

Callandra Gentileschi gasped.

He murmured, “Dear Lord in heaven.”

She grabbed onto his shoulder and buried her face in his back. He couldn’t witness the ravaged bodies of five boys and the nurse for long, either. Turning, he took her into his arms, felt her grasp his shirt and bury herself in his chest. Connor shut his eyes, closing out the misery.

Present Day

Calla stared down at the little boy with her best stern- doctor look. “You must behave, August. You’re interrupting Ms. Gentileschi’s lesson.” Her sister Gabriella taught this little boy in a classroom down from the nurse’s office where Calla volunteered.

The five-year-old, with eyes reminiscent of so many she’d seen in her stint in Syria, caused her pulse to quicken.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sat on the stool so she came face-to-face with the boy. “Are you having trouble with the math?” she asked. “Ms. Gentileschi said you often misbehave when you’re confused.”

He turned his head away. Even at five, men hated to reveal their weaknesses. Once, when Connor had been burning with fever, he insisted he was fine until he collapsed.

Don’t think about Connor. Don’t think about Syria. And the debacle you’ve made of your life.

A little while later, her sister Gabriella entered the office. “How’s it going in here?”

“The bump on his head is fine.” The boy had banged it against the desk. “We were talking about math.”

Gabriella squatted down in front of him. “Is that what this is all about?”

The child nodded. At least he answered.

Her sister stood. “Take my hand,” she said to August. To Calla, she asked, “Everything okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“You look pale.”

“Our friend here reminds me of...other boys.”

Gabriella squeezed her arm. “We have a break soon.” She glanced at the clock. “Meet me outside after I take August to the playground.”

As they left she heard Gabriella say, “We’ll get you more time with the problems, August.”

“Don’t wanna miss recess.”

“All right, then you’ll do fewer.”

Ten minutes later, Gabriella and Calla met up under a tree on a bench behind the low income elementary school in the heart of D.C. Calla had stopped to get them both coffee. An aide supervised the class at the playground across the way. Mid-March had turned warm, but a breeze made it comfortable.

“He reminded you of the boys in Syria?” Gabriella never minced words, and met problems head-on.

“Yes.” Calla sighed. “It’s still with me, Brie. And I left there a year ago. I should be over it by now.”

“Not necessarily. You experienced traumatic events every day in the Middle East. You don’t bounce back from that quickly.” She shook her head. “And then you went back to experience even more horror from that monster you married!”

She grabbed Brie’s hand. “I’ll be better. Don’t worry about me.”

Her sister gave a very un-princess-like snort. “I’m very worried about you. You prowl around all night.”

“I’m reeling from everything.”

“If we took concrete steps to keep you safe from your husband, you might sleep better.” She frowned. “You haven’t seen him or any of his henchmen here, have you?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it’s only a matter of time.” Lorenzo knew all the Gentileschi girls except Alexandra were in America. Calla shivered. “What if he tries to extradite me?”

“We could at least ask at the embassy if he can do that. Or seek a divorce or an annulment so he has no claim over you.”

“Divorce or annulment can only be granted in Casarina while I’m present.”

“Then what about this? The material we looked up online says there are criteria that allow victims of domestic violence situations to get asylum.”

“I’m not a member of any group, which is a primary one of them. I’m a princess, for God’s sake, and princesses don’t run away from their country. I’m sure I’m in violation of Casarina laws for just doing that.”

Gabriella sighed deeply. “We don’t know if they could send you back for that.”

“What if I can’t get asylum. What if I make myself known to the authorities and then they send me back? No, that’s too great a chance to take.”

“Something has to be able to be done, Callandra!”

A bell from the school rang. “Let’s go back,” Calla said. Talking about her problems only brought them to the forefront of her mind.

“You should go home. Rest.”

“That’s the last thing I need. This volunteer work is saving my sanity.”

“Okay, we’ll talk more about it later.”

“Maybe.”

She should honor her sister’s wishes to go to the embassy. Brie had taken her in without a qualm. Two years younger than Calla, Brie had already decided she wasn’t going back to Casarina when she turned thirty. Which was ironic. One of the reasons Calla adhered to her father’s dictates was so she wouldn’t present a bad example to her six sisters, who all looked up to her as the oldest. Instead, when Brie made it clear she wasn’t returning to Casarina, her father told her youngest sister that she, Lexy, would be staying in their country. Her mother was furious about that, too.

In the long run, she was glad Brie was staying here. She couldn’t bear the thought of any of them returning to their homeland and facing what Calla had endured.

Torn by conflicting emotions, Calla had become immobilized. She had to get over that. For her sake and theirs.

Declan met up with Connor in the cafeteria for lunch. Usually ER doctors grabbed something on the run, but he’d been unable to corner his brother for any length of time to figure out what was going on. And now he had proof there was something indeed happening.

Declan eyed Connor’s salad. “You eat like a bird.”

“Not much appetite.” He pointed to Declan’s meatloaf dinner. “Just because you eat like a lumberjack, doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Agreed.” He waited, then he added, “Whitney’s getting married, Con.”

“What?”

Declan’s eyes narrowed. “Mama told me yesterday. When you didn’t bring it up, I knew something was amiss.”

“Fuck. Whitney should have called me. But I’m glad they are. They deserve happiness. When are they coming home for the wedding?”

“They aren’t. She informed Mama and Pa she’s getting married in D.C. by a Justice of the Peace.”

“Whitney, the one who loved to play dress-up as a bride?”

Declan chuckled. He could still see his cousin in her mother’s wedding dress, dragging his brother down a pretend aisle. “You had to be the groom.”

Connor gave a reluctant smile.

“Can you guess why she isn’t coming home for the wedding? Mama and Pa are heartbroken.”

Connor sighed. “Because of me. She thinks a wedding for her will make me feel bad.”

“Why would it?” When he got no response, Declan reached across the table. Squeezed Connor’s arm. “I’ll understand whatever it is. From the looks of you, you need to tell somebody what’s been bothering you since you came home from D.C.”

Connor averted his gaze.

“Is it that painful you can’t even confide in your big brother?”

Connor seemed to deflate right before his eyes. He scrubbed his face and said, “Yes, but this is killing me. Maybe I do need to talk.” He glanced at the clock. “Only for a little while though.”

“I’ll take anything.”

“I-I fell in love in Syria.”

“With a Muslim woman?”

“No. With another doctor.”

“And?”

“You won’t believe this. She’s Italian, from a sovereign state called Casarina off the coast of Italy.”

“Sovereign state? That means it’s a self-contained government, subject only to their own laws.”

“Yes. It’s a study in contradictions. They’ve got the Marcello School, one of the most progressive educational systems in the world. Her mother was instrumental in creating it. The U.S. president’s daughter even went over there for a while. But in other ways, they’re in the dark ages. One of their laws is that the patriarch of the family gets to pick who his children marry.”

“Still? In this day and age?”

“She said so. But it doesn’t happen all the time. Seems like liberal thinking is popping up. Apparently, though, the royals have always adhered rigidly to the dictum. Much of it has to do with producing an heir.”

“And this woman? She’s a royal?”

“Yep. Princess Callandra.”

“Unbelievable.”

“The king, Alessio Gentileschi, had seven girls and no one to take over the throne when the time comes. He married a noblewoman who is half French, and has more modern viewpoints.”

“It sounds like a movie.”

“I know.”

“I met Callandra, Calla for short, who’s the oldest, in Syria. She came to Doctors Without Borders after medical school.”

“The mother’s French?”

“I see you get the connection. Her grandparents were part of starting Doctors Without Borders in 1971.”

Declan had researched the organization when Connor joined up. Doctors Without Borders, or known by their French name, Médecins Sans Frontières, was an independent humanitarian organization founded in 1971 to help victims of war overseas. Today there were over 33,000 staff on the ground in seventy countries. MSF provided medical assistance to those affected by war, natural disaster and outbreaks of disease.

“In any case, we met and fell in love.” He shook his head. “What was I thinking that I let us get involved?”

“Maybe that she wouldn’t go back?”

“Probably. I guess I didn’t understand her culture.”

Declan’s eyes widened. “Oh, Con. She did?”

“Yep, right on her thirtieth birthday.”

“Shit.”

“She married the man her father picked.”

“I am so sorry, bro. Now I understand why you’ve been sad. Not yourself.” Connor had always been the light one of the bunch.

“There’s more.”

“Jesus.”

“She’s back in the U.S. now.”

“Can she do that? Breeze in and out of the country?”

“Apparently, at the queen’s insistence, the king made an agreement with the U.S. that their children and the children of diplomats could be educated here after attending the Marcello school. For college and law school. He even got temporary visas for them until they were thirty.”

“Huh. Why did she come back here?”

“She left the man she married after six months.”

“Why?”

“She couldn’t conceive and he abused her.” Connor’s fist tightened. “So her mother smuggled her out of the country.”

Declan leaned back, abhorred. “Have you seen her?”

“She came to D.C. and attended a gathering she knew I would be at. She asked for another chance.”

“And you didn’t give it to her?”

“No, Dec. Because she’s still legally married. But the bigger reason is it almost killed me when she left the first time and the king could lure her, and any children we might have, back. I’d never survive that.”

Every time Calla took to the streets for her daily trek of three miles, she thought of Connor. As much as they were able, they’d walked around the Syrian village every morning at dawn, before people woke up. They held hands, talked and laughed—or cried depending on what was happening—heedless of the cold or heat. They never discussed the future. Today, she allowed herself five minutes to remember the heavy weight of his hand in hers, the ways their bodies bumped against each other, then she forced him out of her mind.

Instead, she took in her surroundings. She liked to be on the Mall, as it was absolutely beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Casarina, which had rich landscapes nestled in small mountain ranges, waterfalls and only enough industry with their vineyards to support their small population.

As she passed the Korean War Veterans Memorial she took in the monument and her thoughts turned to war. There had been none at home. But she knew the meaning of it from her time in Syria. Horrific images of exploded bodies and gallons of blood filled her mind. After a mile and a half, she stopped for coffee at an outdoor vendor.

“Ah, the beautiful Italian,” the barista said when she stopped. “Buonjiorno.”

“Buonjiorno.”

He served her espresso. She accepted with a “Grazie.”

Crossing to a bench, she sat and watched the tourists go by. This was new to her as Casarina had few visitors. Which partly accounted for her father’s backward ideas.

She thought of Alessio Gentileschi. He wasn’t a bad man. Just a stern one. She’d been shocked that her father had been so unyielding. “I am sorry, bambina, but we are in dire need of an heir. I will make sure Lorenzo never does this again. I promise. But you must go back.”

Though she’d been horrified, she’d gone back because her mother had been outraged about his stance. The fight over what Calla should do caused a schism between them that was so great, Calla had feared their marriage would be ruined because of her. So she went back. Then it happened again; Lorenzo struck her and dislocated her shoulder, she’d gone to her mother and confessed she couldn’t bear the abuse and wanted Mamá’s help.

Stunned by Calla’s physical condition, Renata had taken tender care of her daughter, gotten her out of the palace and stayed with her until she could arrange to smuggle her out of the country.

A chill went through Calla. Was it because of her memories? No, this feeling had come to her a couple of times before. She looked over her shoulder. Scanned the area. She was imagining that someone lurked behind her. Because if she was under surveillance, if Lorenzo had sent his minions, she would have been kidnapped shortly after she arrived.

Finishing her drink, she got up and started back to Brie’s. She tried to cherish the coolness of the day, the sun shining down, and to breathe evenly. When she turned the corner onto her sister’s street, she felt the chill again and her head snapped around. Did she see a person jump into the shadows or were her fears getting the better of her? Holding her head high, she stepped up her speed until she reached the house. Next door, a neighbor waved. He was a friend of Gabriella’s, also a teacher.

Inside, she found her sister in her perch on one of her window seats where she loved to read. “How was your walk?”

“Great. It’s so beautiful in this city.”

“I took a while to get used to the lower temperatures.”

Would Calla still be here when the weather turned even colder? Or would she have been dragged back to a life more horrific than when she left?

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Gabriella scrambled off the seat. “Were you followed?”

She was closest to this sister and they’d always sensed things about each other. “Just in my imagination.”

“Tell me. I insist.”

“All right, but don’t overreact.”

“I won’t.”

Calla blurted out, “I had chills run up my spine. Twice.”

“Fuck it, Calla. Mamá called while you were out. No one has heard anything from Lorenzo. She fears he’s up to something.”

“Do you think he is?”

“A man who would beat his wife could do anything.”

Connor went up to the rooftop of the hospital as soon as he got off work. He was so wound up from his confession to Declan he felt as if adrenaline had been shot through him intravenously. And Whitney? What was she thinking? He let his mind drift to her. For years he’d comforted himself with memories of their childhood and how happy they’d all been. Remembering those things got him through a lot of hard times. Before he punched her phone number, he recalled one.

When Whitney came to live with them, Connor couldn’t believe his good luck. Sure she was a girl, but who cared? His brothers treated him like a baby. She was his equal.

When they’d turned eight—they were born only days apart— they wanted to have a party together. Mama was ecstatic, as she’d only have to have twenty eight-year-olds over one time...

After they’d opened their mounds of presents, while they were waiting for cake to be served, Connor headed to the detached garage to get some squirt guns. He was right around the corner and could hear two boys talking. “They’re gay,” one said. It was Bobby Hawkins, the bully of the class.

Mama had made them invite their whole class. He didn’t like these two, but his brother Gabe told him to ignore them.

“Yeah,” his buddy responded. “My mother made me come. Who wants to have a party with a girl?”

“They’re both dorks.”

Connor walked around the corner. The boys blushed. “Okay, I might be a dork. But Whitney isn’t. Take it back.”

“She is. She thinks she’s a boy. She can’t do shit.”

Connor laughed, thinking he’d win this one. “Yeah, she beat you in the races on Festival Day, Bobby. Give her a break.”

At the mention of his failures, Bobby stalked to Connor, and pushed him back. Connor stumbled but stayed upright. “Who’s gonna make me, dorkface?”

“Not me. I don’t fight.”

“You’re a chicken, too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Bobby pushed again, and this time Connor fell to the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

Suddenly, someone flew around the side of the garage. He saw Whitney, dressed in her pretty pink clothes that Mama insisted she wear, tackle Bobby. Connor got up to help her.

She straddled Bobby and said, “Tell Connor you’re sorry or I’ll bash your face in.”

“Whitney, don’t. Not at our birthday party.”

She raised her fist.

Someone else came into view, grabbed that fist and picked her up by the armpits. His brother Gabe. “Stop this, now.”

“She started it,” Bobby said, getting up.

“No she didn’t. You were pushing me around.”

“Need a girl to...”

He stopped when Gabe cut him off. “Bobby, Tommy, get in my car.”

“Why?”

“You’re going home.” He turned to Connor and Whitney. “You two go in the house and get cleaned up. It’s almost time for cake.”

When they left, Connor turned to Whitney. She looked at him soulfully. “I had to do it, Connor. He was gonna hurt you.”

“I hate fights.”

“Sorry if I ruined the party.”

“Nah, you didn’t.” He held out his hand and they walked around to the side door which led to the bathroom downstairs, where no one could see them. As they cleaned up, Connor laughed. “Boy did he go down hard!”

And Whitney smiled. That was all he wanted...

On the roof now, he was warmed by the recollection. It softened him toward her enough to call her. Unfortunately, he’d have to be stern with her, which didn’t come easy.

  She answered immediately, as she was off work for the weekend. “Hey, buddy. How are you?”

“Pissed off.”

“At who?”

“Take a wild guess.”

Since they rarely exchanged an angry word between them, she went silent. For a long time.

“Did you hear me, Whitney Anne?”

“Um, yeah. Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You are to come home and get married.”

“Con, no.” Because her voice quavered, he gentled his tone. “Please, Whitney, don’t do this to Mama and Pa. When Nick and Gabe went off and got married without them present, it broke their hearts.” Dec had married at home, but Nick and Gabe had eloped.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Whit, we’ve never been jealous of one another. I’ll be happy when you marry Max.”

“Not while you’re still mourning the loss of Calla.”

“No!” So much for a gentle tone. “I won’t have her ruin any more of my life.”

“So you are suffering.”

“This conversation isn’t about that.”

“Talk to me.”

“No, you listen. This wedding is going to be in Lakeville. It can be any kind, small, large, hell, in the backyard if you want. But we will be there. This is a hard line.”

“Shit, Connor. We haven’t pulled that promise out in ages.”

They’d agreed when they were young that they would let each other live his or her own life, but if one of them ever drew a hard line, the other listened. So far, they never abused the vow.

“I am pulling it out. And I’m going to hang up now so you can make plans.”

“Con...”

“A hard line, Whitney. I love you, but I mean it.”

And he disconnected.

Still, he stayed where he was, trying to get himself back under control. Gone was the calm his childhood memories had brought. Any kind of conflict was hard for him, but with Whitney bad feelings were almost intolerable. Just when he felt as if he could drive home, his phone rang again. He’d ignore the call if it was from her.

It wasn’t. The number had a D.C. area code, but wasn’t any of his family’s. There was one other person who was there... something made him click on. “Dr. Marino,” he said curtly.

“Connor Marino?” He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Gabriella Gentileschi. Calla’s sister.” She pronounced it with the hard T in the middle.

He knew all six of Calla’s siblings by their beautiful names and could even picture this one from Calla’s description. Instead of inheriting the dark sultry features and coloring of the rest of them, Gabriella was blond and blue-eyed like some Southern Italians. “I know who you are. Why are you calling me?” A streak of terror went through him. “Oh, God, has something happened to Calla?”

“Not yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing’s happened to her yet. But she thought she might have been followed today. She won’t take my advice about seeking whatever kind of assistance might be available in your country. You have to come down here and help me.”

“No.”

“Shit. I thought you were man enough to do that. I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry she’s suffering over someone who’s not worth it.”