Someone who did know reached out and, very gently, led the Suicidal Warrior back to where it was warmer, safer. That someone laid strong hands across the shoulders that were rigid, as rigid as if a last sleep had already begun. And the song heard that night in the back of the woman’s mind was an Irish lullaby, the kind that old warriors used to sing—to young warriors fallen in battle from wounds so deep they would not recover.
