"Ten past midnight."

"We should go out and see what's up."

"Bravo, you go."

"I'm going."

But no one moves.

Cederna hasn't been thinking about Mitrano for some time, but his earlier thoughts have left him in something of a bad mood. He doesn't see any sense in sitting cooped up in here while the enemy intermittently bombards the base. They should get out there and waste them, every one of them, go ferret them out, drop cl.u.s.ter bombs on their stinking hidey-holes-that's what those who fight like cowards deserve. If only he were already in the special forces: awakened in the dead of night, parachuted from nearly ten thousand feet into the middle of a red zone to sift through a village, flush out the terrorists, put hoods on them, and tie their hands and feet. If a shot is fired by mistake and blows one of them away, so much the better.

It's hot in the bunker and his leg muscles are stiff. He thinks about his upcoming leave, about Agnese; he's going to s.n.a.t.c.h her away right after she graduates and take her to the sh.o.r.e, to San Vito. In October, with a little luck, you can still swim, but even if the weather is bad they'll have a great time just the same, having s.e.x on his aunt's rickety bed, with the curtains open to let the neighbors peer in at them. The house in San Vito smells of his childhood, his vacations as a boy; even s.e.x has a different pleasure when they do it there. The rusty aviary where his aunt kept her two tropical parrots still stands in the courtyard. The cage was too small and the birds constantly tormented each other with their wings and beaks. Cederna had given them names, but he doesn't remember them anymore-for the others in the family they were only "Zia Mariella's parrots." The birds had disappointed everyone because they never learned a single word; all they did was utter harsh shrieks. They spent their time fighting and littering the cage with excrement, yet he'd been fond of them and had cried when they died within a few days of each other. Cederna closes his eyes. He tries to remember.

The siren wails again at four in the morning. Three short bursts, s.p.a.ced apart, to signal the all clear. At that point, many of the guys in the bunkers are asleep; they've lost touch with hunger and their countless joint pains. Their numbness makes the return to the tents slow and fretful.

For Lieutenant Egitto it's not over yet, however. He's awakened just when he's managed to get to sleep, or so it seems to him (actually he's slept for more than an hour).

"Doc, we need you."

"Yeah, okay." But he can't seem to get up and for a moment he drops off to sleep again.

A hand shakes him. "Doc!"

"Yeah."

"Come with me."

The soldier shoves him off the cot. Egitto isn't quick enough to make out his features or rank. He rubs his hands vigorously over his face, causing bits of skin to flake off. He grabs his pants from the chair. "What's happened?"

"One of our men doesn't want to leave the bunker, Doc."

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

"What's the matter with him?"

The soldier hesitates. "Nothing. But he doesn't want to come out."

Egitto pulls on a sock. It's full of sand; the gritty particles scratch his foot. "So why did you call me?"

"We didn't know who else to call."

"Which company are you in?"

"Charlie, sir."

"Let's go."

The storm is still going on, but its intensity has decreased; now it's little more than a grimy wind. They press ahead, heads bent forward, protecting their eyes with their hands.

The boy is huddled halfway down the bunker. Around him are a couple of soldiers and it's clear they're trying to talk him into something: when they see Egitto duck into the tunnel, they salute and hastily go out through the other side.

The young man looks like a rather limp rag doll, as if someone has pulled out the stuffing and sewn him back up again, empty. His shoulders are sagging, his head is slumped over his chest. Egitto sits down in front of him. When they left, the soldiers took their flashlights with them, so Egitto has to turn his own on. He leans it against the concrete wall. "What's wrong?"

The soldier remains silent.

"I asked you a question. Answer your superior. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sir."

"You don't want to leave?"

The soldier shakes his head. Egitto reads the name on his insignia. "Your name is Mitrano?"

"Yes, sir."

"Full name?"

"Mitrano, Vincenzo, sir."

The boy is breathing through his mouth. He must have perspired a lot because his cheeks are flushed. Egitto imagines the bunker crammed full. A strong smell of sweat still lingers, mixed with another, less recognizable odor, the smell produced by lots of bodies pressed against one another. Vagal crisis, he thinks. Panic attack, hypoxemia. He asks the soldier if he's ever experienced anything like this before, but he doesn't say the word panic, or attack, better to use claustrophobia-it sounds more impersonal and doesn't suggest debility. The soldier says no, he doesn't have claustrophobia.

"Do you feel dizzy right now?"

"No."

"Are you nauseous, light-headed?"

"No."

A thought occurs to Egitto. "You haven't . . ." He points to the soldier's groin.

The boy stares at him, appalled. "No, sir!"

"There would be nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know."

"It can happen to anyone."

"It didn't happen to me!"

"All right."

Egitto finds himself in a quandary. He needs symptoms to work with. Medical history, diagnosis, treatment: that's how a doctor does his job; he doesn't know of any other reliable method. Maybe the soldier felt scared, that's all. He tries to rea.s.sure him: "They won't fire anymore tonight, Giuseppe."

"My name is Vincenzo."

"Vincenzo, sorry."

"I told you a minute ago. Vincenzo Mitrano."

"You're right. Vincenzo. Tonight they won't fire anymore."

"I know."

"We can go back out. It's safe."

The soldier hugs his knees to his chest. His pose is that of a child, but not his eyes. The eyes are those of an adult.

"Anyway, there wasn't any real danger," Egitto persists. "No mortars fell within the base."

"They came close."

"No, they didn't."

"I heard them. They were close."

Egitto is beginning to grow impatient. Consoling people is unknown territory for him; he lacks the proper words. Mitrano sighs. "They left me outside, Doc."

"Who left you outside?"

The soldier makes a vague gesture with his head, then closes his eyes. Soft murmuring can be heard a few steps from the bunker; his companions are waiting for him. Egitto makes out the words "a bit of a wimp" and is certain the boy heard them too. In fact, he says: "They're still out there."

"Want me to send them away?"

Mitrano looks toward the exit. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"I'm sure it was by accident."

"No. They left me outside. I was sitting there and they set a trap for me, to kick me out. They did it on purpose."

"You can talk to Captain Masiero about it. If you think you should."

"No. You mustn't tell anyone, Doc."

"All right."

"Swear?"

"Sure, I swear."

The silence lasts for three, maybe four minutes. An eternity in a situation like this, half asleep in a dark burrow.

"How old are you, Vincenzo?"

"Twenty-one, sir."

"Isn't there someone you'd like to talk to? A girl maybe? It would make you feel better."

"I don't have a girl."

"Your mother, then."

Mitrano clenches his fists. "Not now," he says shortly. After a moment he adds: "I have a dog, you know, Doc?"

Egitto reacts with excessive enthusiasm: "Oh, yeah? What kind of dog?"

"A pinscher."

"Are they the ones with the pug nose?"

"No, those are bulldogs. Pinschers have a long snout and p.r.i.c.ked ears."

The lieutenant would like to milk the subject to distract the soldier, but he doesn't know a thing about dogs. He vaguely recalls having wished for a puppy at one point in his life, or maybe not, maybe it was Marianna who wanted one and he wished it for her-in any case nothing ever came of it. Ernesto viewed animals kept in apartments as carriers of deadly germs, and for Nini another presence would have meant adding complexity to an already demanding network of domestic relations. Egitto wonders whether he was deprived of something. Even if it were so, that deprivation hasn't mattered to him for some time.

"Doc?"

"Yeah."

"I'll come out of here. At some point I'll feel like leaving and I will."

"Not now, though."

"No, not now. If that's okay with you."

"It's okay with me."

"I'm sorry they made you come."

"No problem. Don't worry about it."

"I'm very sorry."

Egitto gets up, using his arms. He brushes the dirt off his pants. He's done there. His head grazes the top of the bunker.

"Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you stay here one more minute?"

"Sure."