When she emerged, one of the Audis and her borrowed motorbike were gone. So were the Viking and his bodyguard. She checked the supplies in the other sedan, and headed north. She ate cheese sandwiches and chips and drank bottled water as she curved east into Switzerland, past Bern and Zurich, along the E60. She slept that night at a cheap motel outside Sanct, Switzerland. In Hungary she began vectoring south, past Giyor, circumnavigating Budapest and catching the E75 toward Szeged. Along the way she stopped at border crossings and for gas, eating from vending machines and refrigerator cases in gas stations. She stayed the night in Kistelek, Hungary. The hotel room was austere but clean, the bed linen taut and starched. She lay down fully clothed, an arm across her forehead, staring at the ceiling. * * * Girl, soldier. Bombs, blood. Pianist’s fingers, nails shredded and bloody, reaching for her. Debris crushing ribs. Diggers screaming for help. The taste of dirt and blood. The smell of charred flesh.
