26
Art stopped abruptly. Did the wreath on the door mean that Amia was dead, or was it someone else in the house? His trepidation deepened as it came to him that it could easily mean that more than one person in the household might have died, with civilian casualties being so high. There was only one way to be sure. He slowly walked the last few yards to the front door and, after spending a moment regarding the wreath, he knocked.
The door was opened by Amia’s mother. They took each other in for a few moments before her mother whispered, “You had better come in, Art.”
She led him into the kitchen where her father was sitting quietly. Art was feeling terrible; the possibility that it was Amia who was dead was rising fast.
“We buried her yesterday.” The axe had fallen. Her father’s voice
