“Are you scared of death?” I reply instead.
“I—” He coughs, and a hint of red drips from his lips.My God.“I don’t know. Baba’s dead. Mama said he’s in Heaven. Will I go to Heaven too?”
I shudder in a breath. “Yes, you will. You’ll see your baba there.”
He smiles gently.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispers. “What can I do in Heaven, Auntie?”
How can a child have so much composure in the face of death?
I swallow my tears, drowning inwardly. “You will play all day. There are games and food and candy and toys and everything you could ever want.”
“Can I talk to God too?”
I’m taken aback by his question. “Of… of course you can, ya omri.”
“Good.”
We sit silently for a few minutes, and I listen as his lungs struggle. Already his eyes are losing focus, his breaths becoming shallower by the second.
I pray for his soul and recite Quran verses in a whisper.
“Auntie—don’t cry—when I go to Heaven—I’ll tell God—everything,” he chokes out. I look up, and his face has gone still. His eyes are glassy, and it looks like little stars are caught in his blue irises.
IDON’T MOVE FROMAHMAD’S BODY FOR A LONGtime. I don’t even let go of his hands. Pressing them to my lips, I try to will life into him again. The background noises are muted in my ears. All I hear, stuck on repeat like a broken cassette:I will tell God everything.
Gooseflesh erupts on my neck, and I’m chilled to the bone. I half expect God’s wrath to strike down.
A hand taps on my back. I ignore it. I don’t even hear what the person is saying.
“Hey!”The tapping increases and borders on annoying. I’m grieving a boy I never knew, but who I let down.
“What?” I snap, turning around.
It’s a boy. My age or older. He’s panting and shaking. His hands can’t keep steady; they’re running over his face and tawny curls; his green eyes are wild. He looks familiar and it takes me a second to realize it’s the boy from yesterday, who was carrying a little girl in his arms.
“Please…please! You have to help me.” He jumps over his words, shoulders trembling.
His tone jerks me back to reality. Ahmad may have died, but the living are still here. I push my grief down into the dark edges of my mind. I’ll deal with it later.
I jump to my feet. “Yes? What happened?”
“My sister—please—she came in yesterday because of the bomb—there was shrapnel in her stomach—it was taken out—we took her home—hospital said there’s no space—they said she’d be okay—please—just—” he stammers, unable to keep up with the pace of his words from pure terror.
I snap my fingers in front of him. “Hey! I need you to calm down. Deep breaths, right now.”
He stops himself and tries to breathe but it’s pitiful. He can’t keep it in long enough.
“My sister,” he begins in a forced calm tone. A vein pounds in his throat. “Last night, she got this fever, and it hasn’t broken all day. Even when I gave her Panadol. It’s bad. Really bad. She’s vomited three times, and I can’t carry her here. Every time I try to move her, she screams in pain. Please… youhaveto help me.”
I immediately know what it is. Reluctantly, I take my lab coat off little Ahmad’s body. I don’t even get to say goodbye.
I look around to see if any of the doctors might be able to help, but each of them seems to be caught up with their own patients. I have to do this by myself. When I started here a few months ago, I saw how Dr. Ziad goes above and beyond for his patients, which made me want to do the same. Despite his objections. Because I know the consequences if I don’t do just that. I learned how to take out shrapnel, sew gaping wounds, and attempt to stop death all by myself. I became a surgeon by force. Removed enough bullets to melt down the steel and build a car. Grabbing the emergency surgical bag, I motion for the boy to lead.
“Where do you live?” I ask as we hurry through the chilly afternoon.
His eyes are trained to the skies and tops of buildings; he’s looking for snipers and planes. “Just a few roads ahead. Doctor, why is she in pain? Do you know?”
