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August 5, 1992, is a warm, sunny day a few days after their arrival. People are already out on the main street as Ilijaz and Fatima walk to the hospital in the early morning. A blond-haired, blue-eyed soldier peeks out from under a wide-brimmed hat to greet them. They stop to chat with the cheerful twenty-two-year-old, a drummer for a popular local band. He, along with other former musicians, schoolteachers, policemen, and truck drivers, is on his way to the front line. āI refused to take it. I spit it out. I need out of here. I donāt belong here. I belong in a psychiatric ward. I belong in Bellevue. Itās not safe for me here.ā In Bosnia, villagers have honed the art of future-telling over centuries. The woman explained that her great aunt had predicted she would soon find a husband. He would be a young doctor, and his name would beāPilavovi?.ā That was close enough to Pilav. As he walked past a wing under renovation, he caught the eye of a middle-aged construction worker, who quickly looked to the floor in embarrassment. Good things were not happening on twelve; everyone knew that. For the past three days, while spending his hours in the temporary, makeshift waiting room, he had been taking stock of the neighboring activity. One particularly sad story was occurring just across the hall, where a young man was recovering after falling down a shaft and sustaining a massive head injury. His elderly parents came every day to see him, but no one seemed hopeful about his recovery. My dad said a quick prayer, pleading with God that my fate would be different from that young manās, and he breathed deeply as he prepared himself to see what state I was in this morning. I had just been moved to a new, private room, which seemed like a step in the right direction. On his way to my room, he noticed another patient beckoning him over.
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