Alvarez looked at them. Twenty-three people, the oldest over seventy, the youngest just eighteen. Some still had wounds, bandages peeking out from under their clothes, dirty, some already scabbing, some still bleeding. He turned around, walked to the middle of the bridge, and raised a white flag. The wind was strong, the flag flapped loudly in the wind.
"Cross the bridge. The coffee is on the table, help yourselves."
Twenty-three people stepped onto the bridge. They walked slowly, each step heavy. In the middle of the bridge, someone stopped, looking at the lake's surface. The lake water was very blue, and the sky was also very blue, Tiberias in the distance was very white. Someone squatted down, touching the wooden planks of the bridge. Someone cried, someone laughed, someone did nothing, just stood there.
