She lifts a shoulder, up and down in an elegant (and slightly less mechanical than the last time) motion, spinning her glass around one fingertip in a lazy, lilting circle. "I moved, I'm not in Sarajevo anymore," Sinthia explains. "I'm in Amsterdam now. It's pretty, everything's snowy and iced over."

She likes the cold when fewer people are out and about. It makes her feel less overwhelmed in their presence. She bites her lip, worrying it back and forth between her teeth; though she doesn't know him and he certainly doesn't know her, there's a connection between them, though tenuous as a spiderweb thread. They know the same treatment, at the hands of the same people.

"I want to go to America. I've never been, I don't think. But I remember hearing the soliers talk about it. I just...don't know how to get therem."