* * *

He had thought to redeem his honor with this great project. To quiet the voices in his mind that still hissed that insidious name at him. Preserve life, that’s what Sorkin had to do. In Bergen, it was his own life. In Denver, it was lives of unnamed transplant recipients. But Bergen-Belsen could not happen again. He would not be caught up again, whirled like a leaf in wind, no direction… no control. They would not splash his name across the newspapers. He would not be whispered about. There would be no more Steven Voights for Dr. Abraham Sorkin.

As the light faded in his apartment, Abraham paused at the television set, hand poised over the controls. He sighed deeply, shuffled to his chair and flicked the switch on the reading lamp mounted on the wall above it. The doctor settled into the black leather seat, clutching a worn medical journal, and the image of Steve Voight invaded his thoughts again.

“No more Kapo, ” he said, pounding his fist against the chair arm