Curiously, although they were all war paintings, not a single dead body was visible in any of them. Yet it made a rare kind of sense. War was over for the dead. It existed only in the faces of the living, which was where Paulie Walters had looked for it—in the eyes and mouths of those in trouble, in the way flesh acted in grief and pain and shock. He had looked for it too, in the wounded reaching for each other, or giving comfort with the terrible tenderness people can show in the darkest places. He had found it even in those odd moments of laughter, in the rare joy that is the underside of the deepest anguish.