Helga is still there. In the stream. She wears a coarse, baggy coat — a man’s, off someone else’s shoulder — and she moves with the stream, along a concrete chute — down, underground, to the showers — and she looks at him, directly, through the fire — with eyes full of bottomless, infinite, inhuman sorrow — with eyes that know — and her lips move, and through the roar of the flame: “Fritz. Why didn’t you burn the portfolio?”
