Adeya’s tears soak Chris’s shirt. “They said she left… that she joined another camp.”
“She didn’t.” My voice cracks. “They killed her, Adeya. They killed all of them. The whole village”
Her sobs grow louder, and I can’t stop my own. My hand rubs circles against her back. It’s a useless and desperate attempt to ease her pain. There’s no comfort to give her with this devastation. Only truth.
After a long while, she leans back, wiping her face with trembling fingers. “Why?” she chokes out. “Why would they do this?”
I shakemy head, still crying. “Because they could. Because someone wanted to ensure the pipeline was built, no matter the cost. They didn’t think anyone would find out.”
Her sharp and broken eyes find mine. “You’ll tell? Yes?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I promise, I’ll make them pay for what they did. For Nia. For everyone.”
Her hand grips mine, small and fragile but fierce. “Make them listen.”
“I will,” I swear, returning the squeeze. “I won’t stop until the world knows her name.”
We sit there for a while, hands clasped together, both of us lost in the wreckage of what they left behind. The wind howls through a crack in the window, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke and oil.
When I finally stand, Adeya follows me to the door. She presses a small beaded bracelet—handmade and worn from wear—into my hand.
“Nia made it,” Adeya shares quietly. “For protection.”
My throat tightens at her generosity. “Thank you.”
“Wear it to stay safe.” She slides it over my hand. “To remember her. To remember them all.”
I nod, unable to speak.
Outside, the light has started to fade, the air cooling as I make my way back to the Humvee. Chris stands beside it, one arm braced on the hood, eyes watching the horizon. He looks tired, but when he sees me, he straightens, scanning my face before gently taking my hand.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
He squeezes my fingers firmly. “You did what you came here to do.”
“Not yet,” I whisper. “Not until this is over.”
His eyes soften. “It will be.”
I glance down at our joined hands, my thumb brushing his knuckles. “You really believe that?”
“I have to,” he replies. “For both of us.”
He opens the door and nods toward the passenger seat. “Come on. Let’s go home… wherever that may be.”
The word “home” snags on something deep inside me. I look at him—really look—and I can almost imagine what that might mean again.
I climb into the Humvee, still holding his hand. He reaches over me to fasten my seatbelt, pausing to place a chaste kiss on my lips.
Once behind the wheel, he starts the engine, the low rumble vibrating beneath us as he shifts into gear. We pull onto the road that cuts through the village, dust kicking up behind us. I stare out the window, watching the desert blur by.
As we pass through the tiny village a couple of miles from the base, a flash of movement from an alley catches my eye. Something big. My breath hitches when my brain catches up, realizing it’s a truck. A large, green military convoy truck comes barreling toward us from a side road. “Chris—” I barely get his name out before it hits us.
The sound is deafening. Metal screams against metal. The Humvee rolls over repeatedly, tossing us around like rag dolls. My body slams against the door frame, and the seatbelt constricts painfully against my chest, air punching from my lungs. The windows shatter, and glass rains around us.
We hit the ground upside down with a bone-jarring stop. The world goes still except for the hiss of the engine and the ringing in my ears.
