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.Mr.Margolis has opened his eyes.The other children, the time-traveling children, have stopped screaming, even Atalia, who is still on her knees.She is rocking, her hands still over her mouth, her eyes so big that they take over her entire face.The assistant looks to Mr.Margolis."I'll take care of it," he says, and walks to the child, still rocking, her eyes glassy and glazed.When Atalia sees him, she looks up at him --no longer four, but that inexpressible age that all children have when they believe their lives have ended, that look they can give that is both a cry for help and a cry for comfort, and he reaches down, the way any parent would do, and scoops her into his arms.She clings, the sobs beginning, small at first, then wrenching, whooping noises that demand comfort.To his credit, Mr.Margolis offers no sweeping platitudes, no broad assurances that all will be fine.He just holds her and comforts her and lets her cry on his shoulder.Atalia's eyes close, and her shuddering stops.Mr.Margolis holds her a moment longer before setting her down, and disappearing from my sight.* * * *That night I dream of exploding children, their insides creating a gray cubist kaleidoscope against the sky.There is no one to comfort me when I wake up, no one to let me sob against his shoulder.And I wish for it, despite my advanced age.I have not seen anything like that moment, although I have read of it.And I will not have to go from that moment to another, and another, and another, until I realize the full extent of destruction, both human and material, that composes an act of war.Mr.Margolis will be relieved of his job.He will also be prosecuted for violating the terms of his employment.No touch, no comfort allowed.Each child must come to an understanding of those moments on her own.None of them should be given the false impression that comfort will ease pain, that these situations will get better.The only way to avoid such painful moments is to abandon war altogether.I can do nothing to save this man, not that he wants saving.He no longer has the hardness necessary for his job.I wonder if he ever had it --how many other children he gave aid and comfort to.Perhaps he reported this one only because the assistant watched, or because he had been to this site before and anticipated the death shower, or because, for a brief second, he forgot his true purpose, the mission that he has interfered with.I do not have to see him again, but his voice still echoes in my mind, mixed with hysterical laughter and the sound of dirt, flesh, and bone as it scatters across dry ground: _Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, you'll see_.You'll see.But I find myself thinking, as I close my eyes to fight for a few more hours' sleep, that I have seen enough
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