That’s the part I can’t walk away from.
Not when they still look at me like I might be able to fix things.
Not when their mothers press babies into my arms and whisper please like the word itself might keep death outside the walls.
Not when leaving feels too much like abandoning them.
“Doctor.”
I turn at the sound of Hannah’s voice.
She’s standing in the doorway, pale and tense, her red hair tucked beneath a scarf. Dr. Stephen Cole is behind her, scrubbing a hand over his face like he hasn’t slept in days. To be fair, none of us have.
“What is it?” I ask.
Stephen glances toward the road. “There are new patrols.”
My stomach knots.
The local priest, Father Nabil, steps in behind them. “Two men came asking questions this afternoon. They wanted to know if Americans were here.”
Hannah folds her arms. “We need to go. Tonight.”
I look from one face to the next.
There it is again.
That conversation.
The one we’ve been having in circles for three days.
“There are thirty-two children here,” I say. “Some can’t even stand.”
“And if they find you,” Hannah snaps, “you won’t save any of them.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Her voice breaks. “Because you keep acting like dying here would somehow help.”
I rise slowly, wiping my hands on my already filthy pants. “I’m not trying to die here.”
Stephen gives me a tired look. “Then stop making decisions like you’re invincible.”
I almost laugh at that.
Invincible.
I haven’t felt invincible in a long time.
I feel cracked open. Worn thin. Held together by adrenaline and stubbornness and the faces of children who deserve more than this ruined place has to offer.
“They can’t travel,” I say. “Not yet.”
Father Nabil’s eyes are sad. “The soldiers will not care.”
I know that too.
I know it in the deepest part of me.
