“Good morning,” I answer, commanding my voice to stay calm and not too eager. “You’re late. Is everything okay? How’s Lama?”
He smiles and butterflies flutter in my stomach. “Yes, thank you for asking. Lama’s fever broke, alhamdulillah. Yusuf is doing well too, now that she is. They slept in this morning, and I couldn’t leave before they woke up.”
I fiddle with the antibiotics box in my hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re all good.”
“We are.” He stares at me for a few seconds and I feel the touch of it everywhere.
In ourmightlife where he and I are promised to each other, he’d be standing in front of me now, holding up two fresh halloumi mana’eesh, the melted cheese on the warm bread seeping through the paper wrapping, while supporting two cups of zhoorat tea, the mint leaves filling the air with their freshness. A quick breakfast before we both go on with our day. He’d joke with me and tell me about the dream he had last night. And before he left, he wouldn’t kiss my hand or my cheek because we’re not officially engaged, but he’d give me a smile that feels like he had.
I wonder if he’s thinking that.
He clears his throat. “So, uh, where’s the doctor whose permission I need?”
I blink. “Right.”
I put down the antibiotics and motion for him to follow me. He falls into step as we walk back through the hallways to the main atrium, where Dr. Ziad usually is in the morning.
“Okay, listen,” I begin, taking a deep breath, and he glances at me. “I know it was my idea for you to do this, but it doesn’t come without risks. We live in dangerous times and you don’t know how this might affect you.”
He frowns. “As in someone snitches?”
I nod. “Everyone here—as far as I know—shares your ideals, but those could just be words. So if you don’t want to do this, it’s—”
“I want to,” he interrupts. “I’ve thought about it long and hard. And I told you, it doesn’t matter to the military if you’re recording or not. If you’re healing people or not. We’ll all be tor—we’ll all face the same fate. And you’re putting yourself in the same danger as I am.”
I shudder. He’s right. As a pharmacist I’d face exactly what Hamza faced. Dr. Ziad would probably have it the worst of us, seeing as he’s the head surgeon.
“So, might as well go down fighting,” Kenan finishes. “I won’t let them own my fears.”
His words strike a chord with me and I quickly look away so he doesn’t catch my expression.
I won’t let them own my fears.
When we find him, Dr. Ziad is beside a man whose arms and legs are heavily wrapped with bandages and whose left eye is swollen shut. He’s lying on a bed, alone, staring vacantly ahead. We wait until Dr. Ziad is finished checking up on him.
When he turns toward us, he’s smiling sadly.
“Uh, Dr. Ziad, do you have a moment?” I ask, trying not to look at the injured man.
He glances from me to Kenan. “Sure.” He nods and leads us into what functions as his office and an extra room for high-risk patients. There are two patient beds propped against the wall; Dr. Ziad’s desk is cluttered with stray papers. Light filters in from the yellow-tinted window.
“Something I can help with?” he asks after closing the door.
I catch hold of the ends of my hijab. “Dr. Ziad, this is Kenan. The boy whose sister needed my help.”
“How is she?” Dr. Ziad asks Kenan.
“Good, alhamdulillah. Thanks to Salama’s effort. She’s brilliant.” He smiles at me, and my internal temperature rises a few degrees.
“We’re very lucky to have her,” the doctor agrees.
“That’s very kind of both of you to say,” I murmur, feeling self-conscious. Then, in a louder voice, I continue, “Doctor, Kenan here”—I look at him and he nods—“he records the protests, and I was wondering if he could also record the patients coming in, to document their stories so the whole world can see what’s happening.”
“And I’d like your permission, sir,” Kenan says.
Dr. Ziad looks interested and he scratches his chin, thinking. The wrinkles around his eyes are more pronounced, the crow’s feet digging deeper.
“You have my permission,” he says. “If you’re doing individual stories, you’ll need their approval first. But if a large bombing happens and they bring in the victims, show it all.”
