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distant—but there were inflections he’d never heard before, and this voice came from somewhere to the east.
    He listened carefully as he stuffed his possessions back into his rucksack and took one last look around the camp. Near Mladen’s body was another
     rifle, this one undamaged. Joško slung it over his shoulder, and decided that nothing more needed to be done.

4.
    J oško followed the girl’s voice deeper and deeper into the night. She sang ballads and folk songs and at times only his name, and he
     wondered if she was beautiful. He skirted the few towns he came to and crossed all roads at a run. The moon slipped below the horizon, and a few hours
     later the sky began to glow.
    As the sun rose over a range of hills in the distance, Joško entered the mouth of a shallow valley. There was a grove of willows whose thin leaves
     twisted like the fingers of the deaf. He rested for a moment in the shade, and the girl’s voice faded away.
    There was now no sound except for the wind. He started walking again, and his cheek began to twitch. He slowed his pace so that the twitching was more
     or less in time with his steps. Then across a draw he saw the dark green of a pear orchard, and realized that his stomach was burning with hunger.
    He crossed the draw and entered the orchard, picked a pear from a low branch, bit into it, and his whole spindly body sang with the flavor. He finished
     the pear in two more bites, and was about to pick another when he heard someone shout.
    He turned, and on the far side of the orchard he saw a small stone house. There was more shouting, and the door swung open. Out came an old man waving
     a long stick.
    - Dog! the man shouted. Mongrel! What makes you think you can—
    Joško cocked his rifle and brought it to his shoulder, and the old man grew young, his stick was a rifle too and Joško shot him in the head.
     The man fell simply. Joško ate three more pears, put half a dozen into his bandana, gathered the corners together and tied the bulging pouch to
     his belt.
    * * *
    Late that afternoon Joško came to a creek, and stopped only long enough to fill his canteen. The girl’s voice had not yet returned, and he
     was starting to worry. He waded quickly across and walked into a field of wild poppies. The flowers shifted around him, and it felt as though he were
     bathing in their color.
    The field ended at the base of a steep shale hill. It was a long climb to the ridgeline, and from there he saw a string of mountains in front of him,
     and another beyond that. Waiting for his lungs to calm, he looked downhill, and saw a ditch where three Croatian soldiers were huddled together. All
     three were waving their arms, and one shouted, Get down!
    Joško hurried off the ridge and crawled in alongside them. The nearest soldier had fouled his pants, and the odor curled around him.
    - Is it true? he asked Joško. Is it him?
    - What?
    - The sniper! said another. Is it Hadžihafizbegović?
    - What sniper?
    - For fuck’s sake! the third one said. The one who’s shooting at us!
    Joško peered over the top of the ditch, and saw a dead soldier stretched out in the dirt not far away.
    - From six hundred meters! said the soldier who stank. Six hundred meters, and he shot Marko right in the ear!
    - An artist! said the second.
    - We aren’t sure it’s Hadžihafizbegović, said the third, but we heard that he’s around here somewhere, and the Muslims have
     no one else who shoots so well.
    - The Muslims? Joško said. Are we fighting them, too?
    - Not officially. But there have been incidents.
    - Like what?
    - You know, people getting carried away.
    - Oh. Well, I’m sorry about your friend.
    - That’s okay, said the first. He was an asshole.
    After the men had introduced themselves, the second soldier looked at Joško’s uniform and asked, What unit are you with?
    - It’s a special mission, Joško said.
    Now all three soldiers were staring at him, so he gazed at the horizon and asked how long