He opens his mouth, reconsiders, and then nods.
I turn away from his bewildered expression, walking fast. I don’t go back to the stockroom but head toward the main atrium to search for Am. It’s the same as I left it, patients strewn all over, surrounded by what’s left of their families. Those without anyone break my heart the most. I scan the gaunt faces but Am is nowhere to be found.
I sigh, rubbing my arms, and think about checking the other rooms, when muffled voices leak through the closed entrance doors. Gooseflesh erupts all over my skin and my body stands on alert.
The doors burst open and an avalanche of people swarms in, blood soaking their clothes and dripping to the floor. Limp bodies are being carried in rescuers’ arms; shouting and yells clang against the ceiling. I know they’re victims from a sniper attack when I see no dismembered limbs but blood fountaining out.
And they’re all children.
From the crowd, Am runs in, carrying a bleeding little girl in his arms. His face is torn with anguish and fear.
“My daughter!” he yells to anyone who will listen. “Help me!”
Khawf stands beside me now and presses a finger I don’t feel to my forehead. A horrible thought comes to life.
“Do it,” he says, and Layla’s tearstained face flashes in my mind.
MY LEGS MOVE ON THEIR OWN,MAKING A BEELINEtoward Am, who’s still yelling for help. The scarcity of the medical staff plays in my favor. He’s pressing a dirty shirt against the girl’s neck with one hand, but the blood is soaking through the material and onto the child’s yellow shirt. I need to act fast before I lose her.
“Follow me,” I call, and his eyes focus on me. We run between the sprawled screaming patients, finally finding an old operating table.
“Put her down slowly.” I sound so emotionless I almost don’t recognize my voice.
Quickly, I rip out gauze and press it against the gaping wound on her neck while checking for a pulse. It’s there, but weak. The bullet must have missed her artery by millimeters. I can do this. I can save her. I’ve done it before.
But my arms don’t move, the horrid idea in my mind keeping me still. I look around to see if Kenan is near, if he’s taping, but I don’t see him. If I play this out right, no one will notice.
“What are you doing?” Am demands, practically hissing, when I keep on pressing on his daughter’s neck. “Save her!”
“Give me a boat,” I say in the same emotionless voice.
“What?”
“Give me a boat or… or I remove my hands.” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
His eyes widen and his eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hairline. His limbs shake with anger, and he advances on me but I don’t flinch.
“You—” His face contorts with fury and turns purple. “Howdareyou? You call yourself a pharmacist? You would let her die?”
It’s getting hard to hear over the sound of my heart galloping. “You’re wasting her breath being angry. She doesn’t have long.”
I’m bluffing. I know that, but he doesn’t. I need to risk her life a heartbeat longer more to save Layla’s and her baby’s.Myniece. To keep my promise.
His daughter jerks under my hands, about to reach her limit. My eyes fly to Am and then to the people all around, but no one gives us a second look, each engrossed in their own world.
“Fine!” he yells, tears pricking his eyes. “Fine! Please save her.”
I can feel Khawf’s satisfied smile on the back of my hijab. Immediately, I start working, thanking God this is my thousandth neck suture so I’m able to make it quick and without wasting a huge amount of blood.
Am strokes back her hair. “I’m here, Samar. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.”
Nour walks past me and I yell for her to bring me the makeshift blood-donating device.
“Finish her stitches,” I tell her when she gives it to me, and she takes over.
I inject the fine needle into my vein while the other goes inside Samar’s. My skin is translucent enough for the veins to appear without poking around and so is hers. I watch my blood crawl through the thin tube all the way into Samar and pray it’s enough to heal her. To make up for the ugly thing I did. And the ugly thing I’m about to do.
“All done,” Nour says, wiping her hands on her lab coat. “She’ll live, insh’Allah.”
