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her lips.
    â€œThe worst part of it for me is that just before Anitra left shehanded in the next assignment, a week early. Now that they're all in I'm going to have to mark them. It seems pointless, but I suppose I should give her a grade.”
    â€œAfter you finish the marking what are you going to do with it?”
    She looked at me. “I don't know.”
    â€œThere must be somebody around here,” I suggested. “A relative who's taking care of their things.”
    Paula shrugged. “I spoke to the dean. He doesn't know of anyone. She didn't live on campus, but she had a locker. He suggested putting everything in a box and taking it to their house.”
    â€œWhere did they live?”
    â€œI'm not sure. Somewhere in the city.”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo,” she said, standing up. “Will we be seeing you at the memorial service?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œJust remember, it's a gesture, not a commitment.” She smiled.
    â€œSo, I'll see you later then.”
    After she left I chanced another look at the photograph. I sensed Anitra's eyes on me. People die all the time, unexpectedly, unjustly. There was no point trying to find a reason. It just happened. It was no different than dropping a pencil on the floor or catching a stranger's eye in a crowd. If Anitra Siddiqui and her family had not been on that plane, it still would have crashed. There was no pattern, no plan. Enter one door and you end up in a new country with an education and a good job. Enter another and you spend your whole life hungry, cold, and ignorant. It wasn't fair, it wasn't just, and it made no sense.
    The service was held in the campus chapel. I arrived just as it was getting underway, and I was glad I'd followed Paula's advice, for if I had not come I would have been alone in my absence. Classes had been cancelled and every office on campus was shut for the occasion. All the seats were occupied, and the rest of the space was filled with people standing. I was at the very back, against the wall. I could see little of the proceedings from this distance. A priest spoke briefly about God's plan, but since it was a nondenominational service other people were invited to speak as well. The college president said a few words, and he was followed by at least a dozen of Anitra's friends.After about twenty minutes it became very warm, and I had to take off my jacket. At the end someone strummed a guitar and sang, but I couldn't make out the words. I looked for Paula as we began filing out, but I didn't see her.
    In the days following the service, life on the campus resumed its scheduled routine. But there were differences. My students all seemed nervous and depressed, and it was difficult to get discussions going in class. An article on Anitra appeared in the college's weekly publication, and someone took the photo that had appeared in the newspaper, enlarged it to poster size, wrote her birth and death dates at the bottom, and taped it to the wall in the lobby of the main administration building.
    Something Paula said had stayed with me as well, about the school removing Anitra's belongings from her locker and sending them to her house. The same day as our conversation I looked up Dr. Siddiqui's name in the telephone directory and found the address. But I was not familiar with the neighbourhood and the name of the street meant nothing to me. I bought a street map and put it in the glove box of my car. Then, one evening after my last class was finished, I drove to the suburb where the Siddiquis had lived.
    I parked down the street and approached the house on foot. The evening had turned cool and there were not many people about. Across the street a group of boys was tossing a football. A dog was with them. Their shouts echoed sharply and the dog ran after the air born football, barking as if at an intruder, but none of them took notice of me.
    I was surprised to see the Siddiqui house was not special at all and was