“I should cut your throat as you cut his.”
“I’d…prefer…not. Kind of like…living.” I can’t move my head back any further that it already is, but the knife vanishes, and a punch to my side drives the air from my lungs.
“You are American.”
“Sort of. Haven’t been back since ‘03.” I try to keep sight of the haloed outline of the man moving in front of me, but my head is pounding, and the stress position strains my breathing. “Listen…cut me down. I was just looking for an open restaurant. My wife’s pregnant with our fourth kid, and she was having these killer cravings. My mother-in-law made me go out to find her some shit called Bolani.”
“Your wife and children…they are in Afghanistan?” I’ve piqued his interest now—or at least given him something he can verify. Assuming any of it were true.
“If they…weren’t…would I have…been going out…for food, asshole? Seven people in a two bedroom apartment.” Adding another groan for emphasis, I try to push up on my toes to relieve the pressure in my wrists. “Please, man. I didn’t do anything. Let me sit down.”
“Address,” he snaps. “Of your family.”
“Hell no.” Another punch to the gut is followed quickly by a kick to the backs of my knees, and my wrists take all my weight, the metal cuffs cutting into my skin.
“I can do this all night, infidel.”
I get my feet under me and straighten as much as I can. “So…can…I. Your…sources are…wrong, fuckwit. I protect my family.”
“My sources do not lie.” An alarm, like something on a watch, beeps, and Faruk sighs. “Perhaps a few hours thinking about your predicament will leave you more willing to talk.” His footsteps echo on the stone floors, the lights go out, and a heavy door slams shut.
Shit. This wasn’t the plan. And bound like this, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get out of here.
10
Joey
Mateen’s eyes widen, and he calls out, “Papa!” Less than a breath later, Faruk’s presence registers at my back, and I jerk, whirling around to face him and knocking over the little tray of equipment next to me.
“Is my son ready for prayers?” he asks. Before I can answer, he focuses on the bruises covering Mateen’s arms and chest. “What have you done to him?” He stalks closer, forcing me up against the wall, his gray eyes blazing.
“N-nothing! His treatment…requires multiple IVs. And the medications I’ve started him on can be hard on the veins. He needs to be in a hospital. They could insert a central line. It would make all these repeated IVs and injections so much easier. Less bruising.” I can’t move. Fear keeps my muscles locked. “Less…pain,” I wheeze.
Faruk looks over at his son. “Did she hurt you?”
The boy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “No, Papa. Dr. Joey tells me funny stories every time she gives me medicine. Look!” He pokes at one of the darkened patches of skin and smiles. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“He is very…brave,” I say, offering Mateen a weak smile. “He’s a strong young man.”
Faruk steps back, relaxing a fraction. “Very well. Come, Mateen. It is time for prayers.”
“Wait!” I fumble around for a bandage with soccer balls on it, then press it to his arm where I last drew a vial of blood a few minutes ago. It’s almost stopped bleeding, but the bright colors always make the kid smile. “There you are, Mateen. All done, okay?”
“Okay, Dr. Joey.” He gives me a high-five and hops off the bed, then follows his father out of the room.
Lisette, seated on the other side of the bed, drops her head into her hands. “You are braver than I am. Standing up to my husband?”
With a shaky sigh, I start cleaning and resetting my instrument tray. “I don’t feel brave.” I glance up at the camera in the corner of the room, then lower my voice. “Mateen needs to be in a hospital, Lisette. I can keep the disease from getting worse, but I’m scared the drug cocktail won’t work—or worse—that it’ll kill him. And then…Faruk will kill me too.”
She stifles a sob. “He will kill us all. Because Mateen is part French, there are no local matches for bone marrow. Faruk refuses to let a non-believer donate. And he blames me for my son’s disease.”
My heart breaks for her, and I wish I had some words of comfort I could offer. But I know she’s right.
As Zaman comes into the room, I set the last instrument on the tray. The guard pulls out his notebook and inventories all of the sharp objects while I stand against the wall—his nightly routine—then orders me back to my room.
“But…I haven’t eaten today,” I protest when he takes my arm. “I didn’t get breakfast or supper—”
“Amir Faruk says you will not eat until morning. You injured his son. This is your punishment.”
