7It was rage that carried Maria Christina’s heavy sacks up that frigid mountain, a rage that could have carried them half way around the world. Always sweet, gentle, light as a song, even if sometimes melancholic, Maria Christina now knew what it felt like to want to kill. Italians. Men. God. Herself.
At the equipment center, a tall and slender, sandy-haired officer, startling in his good looks, lifted two of the sacks to lighten her load as Maria Christina backed into the loading area.
“You are amazing, Kyria.”
She never noticed him. And when he offered to escort her to some hot soup, she said she wasn’t hungry and started back down the mountain, leaving him staring after her in disbelief as she disappeared into the night. She needed Matoula. And so she quickened her step down the moun
