They didn't even look at it. Zoran's family, their eyes riveted to the road in front of them, out of Vogosca, out of Sarajevo, passed by the house down their street in a total daze. We watched them go, their brake lights turning the corner as the roar of the fire, the bulletlike crackling, filled the Dolby audio tracks. It was burning quickly.

As I turned my back to it in the window across the street I saw her watching. Walking toward her I realized how old she was. Seeing me she snapped out of her trance and started a slow-motion sequence of gestures, holding her heart, her ears, her eyes, in rapid, repetitive motions. She was clearly staying behind, most probably witness to the third major war in her life, watching yet another house burn.