I turned and left the room with my friend weeping on the bed.
He began to cry, the soul-deep weeping of a man who'd lost all and spent his tormented life in a level of hell she'd never be able to imagine.
The words were familiar, the same words he'd spoken to Dusty thousands of years ago, when he'd discovered the youth who was not yet a man on a slave trader's block, bloodied and weeping for the family he'd just lost.
He wondered if the man was his soul, weeping for his brother.
She was able to breathe deeply again and her weeping turned to a trickle.