Even though this is expected to happen at any time, I start to panic. Layla’s alone. I can’t leave her like that the whole night.
“I have to go. Layla needs me,” I echo again.
“Who’s Layla?”
“My friend. She’s my sister-in-law, too, and seven months pregnant. I can’t leave her.”
“How are you going to be any help to her if you’re dead or captured?” he says forcefully, forming a body shield against the door.
Goddammit.
“Can’t you call her?”
“We have phones, but we don’t use them. I’m too scared the military will track them and know she’s alone.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, then takes out an old Nokia. “This is like a burner phone. It’s only used to call people. You can use it.”
“How the hell did you get one?”
“Do you want to ask questions, or do you want to call her?” He hands it to me and heads back upstairs.
Kenan pauses halfway up and then says, “Don’t run into death.”
I nod, and he disappears.
I dial her number, my heart beating loudly as the beeps go by. She doesn’t pick up, and I nearly faint from terror. Three more times. No answer.
Khawf materializes in front of me, and the uneasiness opens the blackest hole in my heart.
“What’s happening?” I gasp.
“Imagine if she’s in labor right now,” he says.
The earth shakes under me.
“These are the choices you make every day, Salama.” He stands closer, regarding me with pity. “You’re gambling with Layla’s life. Not to mention the life of her unborn child. Yourniece. Which is more important? The patients or Layla and her baby?”
I hear my bones cracking under the weight of his words. I remember Layla’s anguish when Hamza was taken. How she spent weeks screaming and clutching her stomach, wishing to die, her torment overflowing like a flood, threatening to drown her.
I imagine what Hamza would say to me if I let any harm come to Layla.
If she died because of me.
IOPEN THE FRONT DOOR OFKENAN’S APARTMENTand walk in like a possessed body. This doesn’t feel right. I need to be with Layla.
“How’s your sister-in-law?” Kenan asks, coming out from the kitchen.
“She didn’t pick up the phone.” I swallow hard.
“Keep it,” he says, reading my fear. “And try again.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods and I stand by the wall, trying to soothe my agitated nerves. The afternoon’s hazy orange glow begins to dwindle, and it drags the harsh cold breeze inside Kenan’s half-destroyed apartment. I shiver, pressing my lab coat tighter to me. Kenan notices and, with his brother’s help, hangs a gray wool blanket from either side of the hole, trying to minimize the frigid air’s reach.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and he smiles at me, shaking his head.
He goes into one of the rooms, lugs out an old mattress, and hauls it across the floor. His brother casts me shy glances, his cheeks hollow and his wrists bony. He looks a bit like Kenan, though his eyes are a lighter shade of green and his hair a darker shade of brown. Two characteristics he shares with his sister.
