I felt cold for the better part of a week. As the city was pelted by a never-ending, almost icy rain, I read Peace by Richard Bausch. I felt wet and cold and miserable due to both. I dragged myself up an Italian mountain with three American soldiers in the winter of 1944. I felt the rain on my face. I felt the snow slide down the back of my neck. I felt as angry as they felt. I felt as fearful as they felt. As guilty, as uncertain, as insane. I did not, however, feel Peace.