It is nighttime. He just turned eight; his birthday party had a rocket ship theme this year. His family is driving home from the autumn ox roast at St. Francis of Assisi Church. In the glare from an oncoming car's headlights, he can see his little brother, Gordon, slumped over against the car door, fast asleep. David's eyes are heavy; he is about to fall asleep, too. A song comes on the radio, and his eyes open for a moment; it is one of his parents' favorites. He can see Dad's gentle hand trace his mother's jawline, caress her neck, as he sings along for a few lines, an octave below the recorded voice.

…the wind will whisper your name to me
Little birds will sing along in time,
Leaves will bow down when you walk by
And morning bells will chime.(1)

His eyes are closing again as he drifts off on the waves of music. The scream of tires sidelong on asphalt wakes him; a split second later comes impact, and all is darkness again.

David jolted awake with a gasp. It took him a moment to remember where he was. India... Goa? He was reaching for Marie to tell her about his dream before he placed himself in the tsunami-relief tent in Kalipatnam. He sat up, painfully, and checked on Drâchen. Sleeping. He started to lean forward to rub his face, but the stitches in his side pulled sharply, inspiring a grunt of pain. He looked up to see Kim regarding him from the doorway.

"I think my parents are dead," he told her, the need to share the memory overriding everything else. "They died when I was a kid. A car wreck."

"I'm sorry," she said. Understanding: This is what his life is: one shattering realization after another. Not knowing what to do.

He stood up carefully.

"Need these?" she asked, tossing him a pack of Vico.

"Two, please," he said. She tossed a second one over. He emptied both packets into his mouth and swallowed.

"Did you think about what I said, about moving down to the orphanage? I think it would be good for Drächen, too; she might miss her friends."

He stood still for a moment, tried rubbing his face with the hand on the side that didn't have a bullet wound. "Yeah. I think we should do it. They know me as Gilberto do Piento. Did you use any other name for me?"

She shook her head, No.

He nodded. "Okay. You don't know me. I just showed up and you recognized me from Drächen's photo." It was too soon, the pills weren't working yet, but he got up anyway and hobbled over to his bag. Pushed in the things that were straggling out, zipped it up. "You going now?"

"Red Cross is scheduled to be here at 0800." She said.

He put on his pack, hoisted the slumbering Drächen, wincing. "Lead the way," he said. Just then, Drächen woke up. Eager to go back to the orphanage, she wanted to walk on her own.

"I don't have any shoes for you, Sweetcakes," said Kim. "The ground isn't safe for your bare feet." There was debris everywhere. One of them would have to carry her.

This did not sit well with Drächen's two-year-old powers of reasoning. Her lower lip was starting to protrude when her father opened his pack and pulled out a pair of small white tennis shoes. Just about the right size; maybe a little large. Drächen was blasé: Of course my Papa has everything I need. She immediately sat on the ground for him to help her put them on.

Kim was touched. How had he thought of that?

Shoes on, the small party departed for the orphanage.

The devastation at the orphanage compound was truly bleak: out of four buildings, only the battered remains of two walls were still standing. David's mouth went dry as he imagined Drächen and the other children running, screaming. Marie, it could have been so bad… I thought she would be safe here. He felt gratitude for Drächen's well-being fountain up inside him.

At Kim's appearance, a flood of children engulfed them; she seemed to know all of them by name. "Why aren't you in your classes?" she asked them.

"It's Saturday!" A dozen voices piped up. David noticed a little girl of about four hugging Drächen, an embrace joyously returned by his little girl.

"Who's that?" he asked Kim.

"Indali. She and Drächen LOVE each other. They each have their own bed, but somehow, by morning, they're always in one of them together. Soul sisters…"

As David observed, the two small heads, one dark and black-haired and one pale and red-haired, bowed together, whispers and smiles evident. Drächen led Indali to David, saying, "Dieses ist mein Papa!"

"Hello, Papa!" said Indali. "Drächen, come see my slate! I wrote my name. Kim, come too!" She bore them away on her tide of excitement.

Sister Angela hurried up to David. "Father John will want to see you," she said. He nodded, and followed the Sister.

"Mr. do Piento." Father John said, betraying no surprise. Standing up from his makeshift desk inside the tent that was his office and bedroom, he held out his hand. "You've come for Marie?"

David looked at him blankly for a moment, then realized he was talking about Drächen and nodded, shaking the priest's hand. He waited for questions, sitting carefully in the chair that the priest indicated. The stitches protested slightly. He shifted, and his shoulder ached. He sat still. Better.

"Is the child's mother with you?" asked the priest.

"She's dead." David looked the priest in the eye, did not elaborate.

"May God relieve your sorrow, my son." The priest smoothly digested this disclosure. "We appreciated your contribution of medicine," he said, after a silence. "Thank you."

David nodded. "The tsunami—was anyone hurt?"

"No, thank God. We received word and ran to higher ground before the inundation."

David exhaled in relief. "But everything is lost?"

"Everything material, yes. But where there is life, there is hope." The priest's eyes were cheerful in the shade of the tent. "Ah, but one thing did survive. The safe. You might want these?" He reached under the battered table he was using for a desk and pulled out two envelopes. They had the stretched look of paper that had been soaked and then dried out. He handed them over.

David took the thin one, the one containing Drächen's identifying papers, and put it in his pocket. He tossed the fat one, full of money, back to the priest. "You'll need this to rebuild," he said. He thought for a moment; he needed more time to heal and formulate a plan. The post-tsunami chaos would be a good cover. "I'd like to stay and help. But I like to keep my good works quiet."

The priest nodded, put the money back under his desk. "It's settled, then. Will you have some breakfast?"

(1) For Baby/For Bobbie, Words and Music by John Denver