“I’d like that,” I murmur.
Kenan lets go of my hand to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life, Salama.”
I smile. “Everyone knows everyone in Homs. Odds are we must have met before.”
“As children? I spent most of my time in the playground, playing football and making a mess in the sandpit.”
“Oh, then we didn’t meet. See, I was either on our balcony gardening or playing Barbies with Layla.”
He smiles. “It might sound cheesy, but I’m sure our souls met way before they found their way into our bodies. I think that’s where we know each other from.”
Heat rushes to my face. What he’s saying is part of our faith. Souls existing beyond mortal bodies. Yet hearing him say that makes my ears and face burn.
He chuckles. “Tell me something good, then.”
I pick at the cuff of his sleeve, appreciating how he distracts me from feeling flustered. “Studio Ghibli inspired me to write,” I begin, and he looks at me with awe. “After watchingSpirited Awaywhen I was ten, my mind became hyperactive. One day I thought, why not write my stories down?”
“Did you?”
I shake my head. “Never a full story, no. School happened. But I never forgot them. Especially when I fell in love with botany.”
He nestles closer. “Would you tell me one of them? It’s all right if you don’t want to.”
My blood must have recovered somewhat because it rushes to my face.
My heart pulls. “It’s silly.”
He looks offended. “Silly? How dare you call my wife’s stories silly?”
I bite back a laugh. I know this moment of happiness will trickle by like sand in an hourglass, but I want to make each second count. I want to keep the pain at bay for a bit more.
“Fine.”
THE BIRDS ARE CHIRPING WHENIWAKE SUDDENLY, tucked against Kenan’s chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulder protectively. Dread slithers along my skin, unwelcome and unbidden, and my heart races.
A nightmare?
I sit up and untangle myself from Kenan, praying he doesn’t stir. He mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep.
I can’t remember if my dreams were troubled, but my anxiousness hasn’t dissolved. If anything, it’s escalating. The cut on my neck burns a bit when I twist my head. I stand, looking for my lab coat, and find it draped over Dr. Ziad’s chair. I wet a corner of it and rub the spot on my stomach that the soldier touched. I frantically press harder, trying to shed the cells, until it burns and my skin protests.
“Morning,” someone murmurs from the corner of the room. My eyes adjust to the scarce early light leaking through the blinds, and I make out Khawf’s silhouette.
“Morning,” I whisper, letting my lab coat fall to the floor.
He steps out of the shadows, his dark suit rippling like the sea on a moonless night.
That explains the dread.
Khawf looks wary. “Does it?”
“What do you mean?”
He glances around Dr. Ziad’s office and suddenly advances toward me. His voice is urgent, very different from his usual drawl. “If five soldiers from the military were able to breach the Free Syrian Army’s defenses, what does that say?”
Fear is a cruel thing. The way it distorts thoughts, transforming them from molehills into mountains.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Khawf continues. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds anxious. “It means this hospital isn’t safe anymore. The hospital will be the first place they attack. Either with foot soldiers or bombs. You know hospitals are always targeted, and the clock has run out on yours.”
