The next morning, Jean-Paul awakes, and he feels it. A bad night’s sleep. He is groggy and achy and not so coherent. He goes to help the early-morning breakfast crew, and there is Sister Magali, holding a mug of steaming hot coffee and waiting for him. She has two-day-old croissants she brought with her to share with her French compatriot. She does not want to tell him she baked these herself, for she is sure that he would think that too forward and personal. As Jean-Paul begins to retrieve his humanity with the coffee and rediscovers his Frenchness with these croissants just like Mama made, she confesses she came by his tent last night. She brought over a spare pillow and witnessed his sleep, which was physically violent and restless with cries, as if he were yelling at someone. The good
