She freezes. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying him.”
“I can carry him.”
“I know you can.” I adjust the boy against my chest. “You’re slower than I am.”
Her mouth opens.
Shuts.
Then she glares like she hopes I choke.
That’s fine.
I’ve been glared at before.
The difference is, for some reason, hers gets under my skin.
We slip out the north side under cover of darkness and smoke.
The alley is narrow, choked with debris, the air thick with dust and diesel and fear. Somewhere behind us, shouting rises as the regime forces realize the clinic isn’t theirs yet.
Miles takes point.
Lucas and Clay bracket the group.
I stay near the center with Olivia and the child in my arms, every nerve tuned to threat.
Twice we have to stop and press into shadows while trucks roll past.
Once a flare goes up and turns the sky blood-red.
The children don’t cry.
Not one of them.
That’s the worst part.
Children should cry.
They should make noise and fuss and complain.
Silence in children is something war creates, and I hate it with a violence I don’t know where to put.
We reach the grain house just as the first sirens begin in the distance.
The truck is old, dented, and missing part of the passenger-side mirror.
Clay yanks open the door, hotwires it in about six seconds, and grins when the engine coughs to life.
“Told you.”
We start loading fast.
One child at a time.
One heartbeat at a time.
