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youth, fifteen years old and fiercely independent. Since Jonathan and Emma’s arrival, he has been at their side constantly. Jonathan is his idol and mentor, his patron saint and most sacred charge. Rashid plans on studying medicine, if only to care for his numerous relatives. The hospital belongs to him as much as the aid workers.
    “Please,” says Jonathan, with a smile to soothe raw nerves. “Let me help. Are you ill? Is one of your men hurt?”
    “It is my father,” says the rabble’s leader. “His heart. He requires medicine.”
    “Bring him here,” says Jonathan. “We’ll be happy to treat him.” He notes the boy’s glazed eyes, his dreamy smile. Is he drunk? High? On what? Raki? Hash? Meth?
    “He doesn’t have the time.”
    “Have you tried the hospital at El Ain? If your father has a heart ailment, I recommend that he go to Beirut.”
    But Beirut is an eight-hour drive and the road to El Ain is impassable due to flash floods.
    “Out of the way,” says the leader, pushing past Rashid. Rashid pushes back. Before Jonathan can react, before he can warn the boy to yield, the leader raises his rifle and fires a bullet into Rashid’s face.
    “My father requires nitroglycerine for his heart,” the leader says, stepping over the body. “And we”—he gestures to his men—“We require something for our souls.”
    One look at Rashid tells Jonathan that there is nothing to be done. He leads the militiamen to the dispensary. It is a raiding party. Greedy hands clear the shelves of morphine, Vicodin, and codeine. In minutes, the dispensary is bare. It is over as quickly as it began. Wishing the Prophet’s blessing upon him, the militiamen climb into their trucks and drive away.
    A minute later, Jonathan has the phone to his ear, frantically hoping to reach Paris. Emma must fly to Geneva and go directly to DWB headquarters. He will telephone ahead to arrange a money order that she must take with her so he can resupply the hospital.
    It is three-thirty in Lebanon. One hour earlier in Paris. He calls the Hôtel les Trois Couronnes, but she does not answer. Her cell is likewise out of service. He phones the hotel again and requests that a message be delivered to her room. But Emma does not call back. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even the next afternoon, after Jonathan has driven into Beirut and used the last of his personal savings to purchase the needed medicines from a black market supplier.
    His wife is missing.
    Every man’s patience has its limits. Sadly, he discovers that faith is not an inexhaustible commodity. At six the following morning, he calls the hotel yet again and asks to speak to the manager. “Are you sure you left the messages in the correct room?” he demands.
    “I am certain, Monsieur Ransom. I personally delivered the last note.”
    “Would you mind checking if my wife is in her room?”
    “But, of course. I will transfer the call to my cellular. If I find your wife, you may speak with her immediately.”
    Like a phantom, Jonathan accompanies the manager up to the third floor. Over the line, he hears the gates of the old-fashioned elevator bang closed; the plodding of well-shod feet down the carpeted hallway; the sharp knock on the door. “Bonjour, madame. It is Henri Gauthier. I am the hotel manager. I would like to ask if you are alright.”
    There is no response. Time passes. Gauthier enters the room.
    “Monsieur Ransom?” comes the urbane French voice. “The messages are all here.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They are lying on the floor. None has been opened. In fact, it does not look like your wife is here at all.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “The bed has not been slept in. I see no suitcases or belongings of any kind.” Gauthier paused, and Jonathan envisions the man’s defeated shrug as if it were his own. “The room has not been touched.”

    Open it.
    Jonathan slipped a finger beneath the flap and tore open the envelope. There was a