The regime doesn’t care that Noor still cries for her mother every night.
It doesn’t care that little Sami clutches a toy car with three missing wheels while I clean blood from his side.
It doesn’t care that the twins sleep curled together because their entire family is gone.
I know exactly what they are.
I know what they’ve been doing to foreigners.
I know what happens when governments need a spectacle.
That doesn’t change the truth standing in front of me.
If I leave, some of these kids will die.
Maybe not all.
Maybe not even most.
But some.
And I will know it.
I scrub both hands over my face. “Give me twelve more hours.”
Hannah stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Stephen mutters a curse.
Father Nabil says nothing at all, which somehow feels worse.
Before any of them can answer, one of the boys from the village comes flying into the room, breathless and wild-eyed.
“Cars,” he gasps in Farsi. “Black cars. East road.”
My head jerks up.
Hannah goes still.
Stephen whispers, “No.”
Outside, the camp changes in an instant.
Noise spikes. Mothers grab children. One of the volunteers shouts. A metal pan crashes to the ground. Fear moves faster than fire, and it catches just as easily.
I’m already running before I realize I am.
Out into the yard.
Toward the road.
Dust rises in the fading light, and there they are—two dark vehicles cutting through the village like a promise of death. Armed men in black step out before the engines have even stopped.
My pulse slams hard against my ribs.
No more maybe.
No more later.
