It's impossible to feel better with the fever radiating hotly out of every thread of muscle and nerve, but the words are like the breeze, like music. From without and still it moves the soul within. There may or may not be anything of the Spirit in this, Zivia being who she is, but they must anyway be drawing from the same well. Like the animals of Africa at the river. Or all the plants of Earth under the sun. He has been friends with enough Jewish folks to know what shalom means--and adonai.

He thinks of Angel, of healing in all sacred places.

"Thank you. Dona nobis pacem," he sighs. Let their words intertwine. "I'll see you tomorrow."