The doctor said
"Grief is very wearing," the doctor told her. "You miss your family of course. You've been up there in the mountains too long. You've worn yourself out."
"Doing what?" she asked him, feeling discouraged.
"I've heard about your projects, Susan. Time to look after yourself. We've heard some rumours about fighting across the border too."
Susan wondered what this would mean for the school.
"And something has happened to your voice," the doctor went on. "All the signs indicate that you should be in the place that you came from, your homeland. Perhaps with your children."
Jack was reluctant to see her go. "Do you have your documents?" he asked.
She opened her bag to show him.
"Where will you stay," he asked, "with no house to live in?"
"Grandfather will have me until things are sorted out," she told him, remembering her dear grandfather who had started her watching hens when she was little.
She found she had no real voice to tell Jack how it was with her, only a dissatisfied inaudible one. She was sorry not to be able to talk to him with truth. It had been such an adventure, the two of them together, or so she had thought.
They said goodbye silently in the capital, like people who hardly knew one another; and after a long and weary journey, she arrived at her grandfather's house, a cottage in a quiet and pleasant valley that she knew well. By the time she arrived, she could hardly speak for tiredness and grief and a feeling of failure.
Next chapter finding her voice
