I hesitate for a few seconds before replying. “I think there’s probably a piece of shrapnel inside her wound.”
He mumbles a curse word.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No. With the hospital overstretched like this, I understand how it could happen. At least it’s one piece.”
Ihopeit’s one.
“How old is she?”
“Nine.”
Dammit. Likely starved and highly vulnerable to infection.
“We have to hurry.”
He picks up the pace, and I follow him through the old alleys of our torn-up city. A few people are out, either deep in conversation or waiting in line at the bakery.
“I’m Kenan,” he says suddenly, and I turn toward him, distracted.
“What?”
“Kenan,” he repeats, and manages a small smile.
“Salama,” I say. His name feels familiar, like I heard it in a dream once.
But before I can try unraveling that faint thread of recognition, he stops. In front of us is a building. Or what’s left of it. Like every building around, it’s been affected by the many stray shells and gunshots. The paint is chipped and peeling off, layer by layer. It’s five stories high and must have been brown once.
Kenan opens the building’s front door slowly and gives me a tentative look. I frown, not understanding. His whole demeanor changes. Like he’s ashamed. We walk up the concrete stairs, which are chipped at the edges, until we reach the second floor. Their door is wooden and old and opens up to the living room, which looks as if a small bomb exploded right in the middle. Broken furniture, deteriorating walls, and dusty ripped rugs. On the other side, I’m taken aback by the state of the balcony. It’s more than half destroyed; chunks of it have clearly fallen down to the streets below. A huge hole allows for gusts of the winter wind to freeze those inside. Standing close to the edge would put you in danger of falling over.
He calls out and one of his siblings, I guess, hurries to him. He’s young, banging on the door of his teenage years. There’s a big hole in the side of his shirt, and his jeans hang loosely on him.
I can hear their sister moaning from where she’s lying on the floor in the living room. I need to work fast. Kenan sinks to his knees beside her and asks if she’s okay, whispering encouragements and love. The younger boy stands beside the doorway, fidgeting with his hands and throwing nervous glances to the little girl.
“Lama, this is the doctor. She’s going to help you.”
The little girl gasps for air before nodding. Her whole face is twisted with pain. I sit beside her.
“Lama, honey. I want to help you, but you have to help me first. All right?”
She nods again.
“Did they give her blood at the hospital yesterday?” I ask Kenan, taking out the tools I need.
“Yes,” he breathes. “One of the doctors donated. O-negative maybe?”
I nod and unbutton her shirt. Her skin is translucent, and her ribs are sticking out like Ahmad’s were. I can’t have tears blurring my sight so I command myself not to cry. Kenan holds her hand and keeps on talking, trying to distract her from her agony. She yelps in pain when I take off her sweat-soaked shirt. I press a palm to her hot forehead.
“Lama, where’s the pain coming from?”
“My—my stomach,” she gasps, sweat trickling down her cheek. I cut her bandages as carefully as I can and say, “I’m going to press my hand on your stomach, and when the pain is too much, tell me.”
She nods. Kenan watches my every movement with tear-filled eyes. I’m astonished at my own composure. The moment I touch her abdomen, she screams.
Shit.
I apply pressure, and she screams even louder.
