Rita sees them coming, moving carefully through the Friday crowd. She waits till they reach their spot, then kills the booming juke.

"Clear the floor!" she commands, quelling the protests with a glare till the two are standing alone.

She punches up their song and the room fills with ghosts. Eyes only for themselves, they embrace and slowly dance.

They were girls then, lovers when the madness struck. One to the camps, the other the streets, each surviving unspeakable horror, their love sustaining them.

Word spreads fast. The crowd of women look on silently, their own trials seeming paler now.