6 June, evening: Horn and Ivory

She could not have explained it, but on impulse she knelt down and kissed him, a maternal kiss on his forehead as if she were tucking a child into his crib.

And then she was somewhat embarrassed. But she tried to reassure herself by imagining that he would be too delirious and confused to remember it later.

All the scorn or censure she could have offered would have been less shattering than that simple act of tenderness. His breath caught painfully in his throat and even with his eyes tightly shut, tears slid down his cheeks. He was so tired of fighting; he wanted to give up, to break down and sob. And what difference would it make? He had failed in every other possible way.