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members, but Immigration and Naturalization seems to think half-sisters don’t count as much as sisters, and they dug up this bullshit criminal record she had, so no go. And she went back to Dragan and got married and lived who-the-fuck-knows ever after.”
   After a pause I asked, “What if she is miserable?”
   “I don’t know,” Talena said. “I don’t know. I’d do whatever I could to help her out. But right now whatever I can basically amounts to nothing. I have no money and I live ten time zones away.” She sighed. “I guess that’s what I’m worried about. That she’ll be miserable, and here I come home at last from the great American dream she was so jealous of, here I am her glamorous half-sister who lives in California and works for the big famous publishing company, and I can’t do fuck-all to help her or anyone else.”
   I couldn’t think of anything to say.
   “We were best friends,” Talena said. “We used to tell people we were identical twins who happened to come from different mothers. I mean, we looked different, but…sometimes when we went out we’d call each other by our own names, it was a little game. So when I see her, that’ll be like seeing what would have happened to me, you know? There but for the grace of God and all that shit. And…damn it. And her husband better fucking deserve her, that’s all. He better at least be trying to make her happy. But I don’t know. She doesn’t say. But it doesn’t sound like it.”
   “Half an hour till we find out,” I said.
   She nodded. “Half an hour.”
   We rode on in silence.
   “Paul?” she said after a minute.
   “Yeah?”
   “It was still really stupid of you. But I’m glad you helped that little boy.”
   “Thanks,” I said. “Me too.”

* * *

   “There she is,” Talena said as the bus pulled into its slot, clutching my arm so tightly that I later found fingernail bruises. I followed her gaze to a small, dark-haired, porcelain-skinned woman, pretty in a waifish-pixie way, dressed sexy and skimpy like most Bosnian women, black leather skirt and tight gray shirt and boots with two-inch heels. Her long hair was arranged in such a way that a canopy of it almost covered the left side of her face. A man, presumably her husband Dragan, stood beside her. Dragan had the Wild-Man-Of-Borneo look, ragged shoulder-length hair, thick beard, brooding eyes. He was much taller than Saskia, in torn jeans and, despite the heat, a black leather jacket with a red CCCP emblem.
   Saskia was so tense with anticipation that she was almost vibrating. Dragan’s arms were folded and he scowled uncomfortably. We disembarked and Talena immediately dropped her pack and rushed to embrace Saskia. Both of them were in tears. I had almost never seen Talena cry before.
   Dragan and I nodded to each other. He was clearly not the touchy-feely type. Up close he was downright scary, six foot four at least, with a wide build and a big belly. His forearms were covered with pale jagged patches of scar tissue. From shrapnel, I later learned, during the war. Another scar ran down his left cheek and disappeared beneath his beard.
  
Maybe he’s a big sentimental softie underneath
, I told myself, but unconvincingly. Dragan seemed a lot more Hells Angel than Brother Bear. He held himself like he wanted to smash something.
   After a while Talena disengaged and waved me over to greet Saskia. I shook Saskia’s trembling hand, and turned to Dragan, but before I could offer my hand he took a step back and said something. In Croatian, presumably, given that both he and Saskia were Croats. His voice was unnecessarily loud and whatever he said made others nearby stop and look at us with distaste. Saskia winced.
   Talena looked at him for a long silent second and then turned to me. “Dragan would like to go now,” she said, her voice neutral and her face rigidly expressionless, “because this is the Muslim side of