“Put your shoes on.”

“I am.”

“You're going to get stung by something.”

“Thanks for the warning.” It was still early and she was not in the mood to see him. He could see it on her face.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to Bujumbura for a couple of hours. We have to pick up some supplies there. You'd get some great pictures.” She hesitated, looking at him. He was right. It would be good for her story. But it was also a lot of Paul. She wasn't sure which she wanted, the pictures, or time without him. In the end, she opted for her story.

“Okay. Thanks for asking. When are you leaving?”

“In ten minutes.” He grinned. He was glad she was going with him. He even liked it when she was rude to him, it reminded him of Serena. She had always been feisty, and normally India wasn't. But it chafed her in a thousand ways to be in such close quarters with him, and most of them were still very painful.

“I'll hurry. Do I have time for coffee?”

“We can wait a couple of minutes. This isn't British Air.”

“Thanks. I'll meet you at the jeep.”

“I'll see you there,” he said, and then walked away with his head down. She had no idea what he was thinking. Probably about the supplies they were picking up, she told herself, as she picked up her camera, and hurried to the mess tent, which was a singularly appropriate name for it in this case. The food was the same every day. She knew she wouldn't gain weight on this trip. And Paul hadn't either. They were both thinner than they had been before, but for other reasons.

She grabbed a cup of coffee and drank it quickly, and a handful of damp crackers that tasted like they'd been there forever, and ran to meet him. He was standing with the black American pilot, whose name was Randy. He was from L.A., and India liked him.

He had been in the Air Force ten years before, and had gone to UCLA film school when he got out, and he'd done some work as a director. But he'd been out of work for so long, he had decided to use up his savings to come here, and do something for humanity for a change. Like so many others, he had been there for two years. And India knew he was dating one of the nurses. There were no secrets in camp. In many ways, it was just like the Peace Corps, only considerably more grown-up.

They were flying an old military plane Paul and his friends had bought them. And they took it off the ground easily as India sat in a jump seat behind them, shooting constantly with her camera. There were herds of rhinos on the hills beneath them, and she could see banana plantations forever. She was totally intent on what she was doing, and wished she could hang out of the plane to get better shots. Paul flew as low as he could without her asking, but she knew he was doing it for her. She also knew he took a long route for better pictures and she thanked him as they finally came in for a landing at Bujumbura.

The market was swarming with people, and she got some wonderful photographs, although they didn't really relate to her story. But they were background at least, and there was always a chance she could use them. She wasn't taking any chances. She shot everything she could get. And when Paul and Randy went to pick up supplies, she took photographs of them loading the plane, with the help of several Hutu in their native dress.

Finally they were ready to leave but first they sat at the edge of the airstrip and ate some fruit they bought in the market. And every now and then an armadillo lumbered past. She grabbed her camera a couple of times, and got the shot. But after a while, even she got blase about what they saw.

“It's incredible here, isn't it?” Randy said with a wide smile. He was a handsome guy and he looked more like a movie star than a director. But there was nothing arrogant about him. And it was obvious he liked India tremendously. By chance, he had read her piece on abuse in Harlem, and the one she'd done in London on childhood prostitution. And as he mentioned it to her, she remembered her calls to Paul then. Thinking of them made her heart twist. “You do great work, India,” Randy praised her.

“So do you. Here, I mean.” She smiled at him, and then thanked him. Paul had said very little to her since that morning. But at least he had invited her to come. It had been fascinating and she loved it.

They headed back to their camp after they'd finished eating. It was only a short flight, and this time she just sat back quietly and looked out the window at the sights below. Paul was sitting in front of her, flying the plane, and he didn't talk to either her or Randy. He was painfully quiet. And after they landed, and got out of the plane, she thanked him for the opportunity, and helped them unload until some of the men came to help them. And when the truck came to pick them up, she and Paul rode in it, while Randy drove the jeep home.

Paul had been looking at her strangely, and then pointed to the scar she had from her accident in March. “Does that thing hurt, India?” He was still curious about it. It was fading, but if you looked at it closely, and he had, when she wasn't watching him, it still looked very nasty.

“Not really. It stings a little sometimes. It's still healing. They said it would take a long time to fade, but supposedly it will. I don't really care.” She shrugged, but she was still grateful to the plastic surgeon who had closed it up. It would have been much worse if he hadn't been there.

He wanted to tell her again how sorry he was, but it no longer seemed appropriate. They had both said it too often, and it didn't change what had happened, what he'd done, or how he felt.

She walked into camp with him, and was going to take a shower and clean up, when one of the nurses hung out a window of the field hospital and called to her.

“We got a message on the radio after you left.” She hesitated for a fraction of an instant, while India's heart stopped. And she knew she wasn't wrong when she heard the message. “Your son is hurt, he got in an accident at school and broke something. I don't know what though. The message was garbled and I lost them.”

“Do you know who called?” India asked, looking worried. It could have been Doug, or Gail, or the sitter, or even Tanya, for all she knew. Or even the doctor, if someone gave him the number.

“No, I don't.” The young nurse shook her head.

And then India thought of something, and asked her, “Which son?” She shouted up to the window where the nurse was calling to her.

“I don't know that either. It was too garbled, and there was a lot of static. Cam, I think. I think whoever it was said your son Cam.”

“Thank you!” It was Sam then, and he had broken something, and she had no idea if it was serious. But she was very worried, and felt very guilty. And as she turned, she saw that Paul was still standing there, and had been listening. She turned to him with frightened eyes and his heart went out to her, and the boy who had sailed with him on the Sea Star, “How do I call home from here?” She figured he'd know that. He'd been there longer than she.

“Same way they called you. It's almost impossible to hear, though. I gave up calling weeks ago. I figure if something important happens, they'll find me somehow. If nothing else, they can call the Red Cross in Cyangugu. It's a two-hour drive from here, but they're wired into a real phone line.”

She decided to cash in her chips then. “Will you drive me?” she asked him with a trembling voice and he nodded.

He only hesitated for an instant. But it seemed like the only thing to do. She needed to know what had happened. “Sure. I'll tell them we're taking the jeep out again. I'll be back in a minute.” He was back in what seemed like less than that, and India hopped in beside him. Five minutes after she'd heard about Sam, they were on their way to Cyangugu. And for a long time, they both said nothing, and then finally, Paul tried to reassure her.

“It's probably nothing,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. Even he was worried.

“I hope you're right,” she said tersely, and then, looking out the window at the landscape sliding by, she spoke in a strangled voice filled with guilt and panic. “Maybe Doug is right. Maybe I have no right to do this. I'm at the other end of the world from my kids. If something happens to one of them, it'll take me two days to get home, if I'm lucky. They can't even call me easily. Maybe I owe them more than that at this point.” She was feeling awful and he could see it.

“They're staying with their father, India,” he reminded her. “He can handle it until you get home, if it's serious.” And then, as much to distract her as out of his own curiosity, he asked her a question. “What's with the girlfriend? Is it for real?”

“I guess so. She moved in with him, with her two kids. My kids hate them, and her. They think she's stupid.”

“They'd probably hate anyone who came on the scene at this point, with either of you,” he said, thinking of himself and the dinner in Westport. At the time he had thought it was fun, and then afterward when he revisited it, he decided they had all hated him, and always would. In fact, it had only been Jessica who had been cool to him. The others had liked him. But he had chosen to repress that. And his son Sean's words hadn't fallen on deaf ears. The prospect of helping her raise four potential juvenile delinquents, all of whom were sure to wind up in Attica, according to Sean, had terrified him. Not to mention his casual suggestion that India might get pregnant, though apparently she hadn't. But it had all contributed to his panic. But now all he could think of was Sam, when he had stood on the bridge next to him, and helped him sail the Sea Star …and then afterward, when he lay on the couch in the cockpit, sleeping with his head in his mother's lap, while she stroked his hair, and talked about her marriage. And now they were here, in Africa, and Sam was hurt. Rather than calming her, she had succeeded in upsetting him too. And they were both anxious to get to the Red Cross in Cyangugu to call home.