Dana nodded, excited. “Great. I’ll see you at dinner. I’m going to work.” She headed for her room.
At six o’clock the following evening, Dana and Wally and Benn were gathered in front of the square where the bombed-out churches and synagogue were located. Wally’s television camera had been set up on a tripod, and Benn was waiting for confirmation from Washington that the satellite signal was good. Dana could hear sniper fire in the near background. She was suddenly glad she was wearing her flak jacket. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re not shooting at us. They’re shooting at one another. They need us to tell the world their story.
Dana saw Wally signal. She took a deep breath, looked into the camera lens, and began.
“The bombed-out churches you see behind me are a symbol of what is happening in this country. There are no walls for people to hide behind anymore, no place that is safe. In earlier times, people could find sanctuary in their churches. But here, the past and the present and the future have all blended together and—”
At that second, she heard a shrill approaching whistle, looked up, and saw Wally’s head explode into a red melon. It’s a trick of the light, was Dana’s first thought. And then she watched, aghast, as Wally’s body slammed to the pavement. Dana stood there, frozen, unbelieving. People around her were screaming.
The sound of rapid sniper fire came closer, and Dana began to tremble uncontrollably. Hands grabbed her and rushed her down the street. She was fighting them, trying to free herself.
No! We have to go back. We haven’t used up our ten minutes. Waste not, want not…it was wrong to waste things. “Finish your soup, darling. Children in China are starving.” You think you’re some kind of God up there, sitting on a white cloud? Well, let me tell you something. You’re a fake. A real God would never, never, never let Wally’s head be blown off. Wally was expecting his first grandson. Are you listening to me? Are you? Are you?
She was in a state of shock, unaware that she was being led through a back street to the car.
When Dana opened her eyes, she was in her bed. Benn Albertson and Jean Paul Hubert were standing over her.
Dana looked up into their faces. “It happened, didn’t it?” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
“I’m so sorry,” Jean Paul said. “It’s an awful thing to see. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
The telephone jarred the stillness of the room. Benn picked it up. “Hello.” He listened a moment. “Yes. Hold on.” He turned to Dana. “It’s Matt Baker. Are you able to talk to him?”
“Yes.” Dana sat up. After a moment, she rose and walked over to the telephone. “Hello.” Her throat was dry, and it was difficult to speak.
Matt Baker’s voice boomed over the line. “I want you to come home, Dana.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Yes. I want to come home.”
“I’ll arrange for you to be on the first plane out of there.”
“Thank you.” She dropped the telephone.
Jean Paul and Benn helped her back into bed.
“I’m sorry,” Jean Paul said, again. “There’s—there’s nothing anyone can say.”
Tears were running down her cheeks. “Why did they kill him? He never harmed anyone. What’s happening? People are being slaughtered like animals and no one cares. No one cares!”
Benn said, “Dana, there’s nothing we can do about—”
“There has to be!” Dana’s voice was filled with fury. “We have to make them care. This war isn’t about bombed-out churches or buildings or streets. It’s about people—innocent people—getting their heads blown off. Those are the stories we should be doing. That’s the only way to make this war real.” She turned to Benn and took a deep breath. “I’m staying, Benn. I’m not going to let them scare me away.”
He was watching her, concerned. “Dana, are you sure you—?”
“I’m sure. I know what I have to do now. Will you call Matt and tell him?”
He said reluctantly, “If that’s what you really want.”
Dana nodded. “It’s what I really want.” She watched Benn leave the room.