Layla. Would she understand? Or would she be filled with horror? I can never tell her.
Khawf taps his foot. “Youhaveto leave. If word of this gets out, what do you think Dr. Ziad would do? Your reputation will be sullied.”
When I hand Am the antibiotic pills, he shakes his head at me like he still can’t believe what happened. Neither can I. I feel like a spectator hovering outside my body, watching my muscles move on their own.
I scurry back to my stockroom, passing by Dr. Ziad, who smiles, and my shame deepens. I shouldn’t be allowed here. Ishouldn’tbe trusted with people’s lives.
Alone in the refuge of the musty stockroom, I sob quietly as I stack the rest of the medications.
“Daisies… Da—daisies… sweet… sweet smelling—” My voice breaks and tears drip on the floor beside my feet as a horrible realization dawns on me.
I may escape from Syria. My feet could touch European shores, the waves of the sea lapping against my shivering legs and the salt air coating my lips. I would be safer.
But I won’t have survived.
WHENIFINISH MY SHIFT, IFINDKENAN STANDINGbeside the front door, fiddling with his camera with a concentrated look on his face. I stop in my tracks to admire it: an expression that isn’t lined with worry or pain or shame. One that reminds me of late spring afternoons. Something about the way he stands there so casually in his wool sweater creates that aching feeling in my stomach for themightlife that was robbed from me. From us.
In that life, I’d train here and he’d be waiting for me on the steps of the hospital, doodling in his sketchbook. He’d treat me to booza at Al-Halabi Desserts and tell me about the quaint Japanese town he wants us to move to. He’d teach me a few Japanese characters, chuckling at my awkward pronunciation. But he’d be patient until I said them right, beaming proudly at me. He’d quiz me on my next pharmacology exam. But we’d quickly get distracted, falling into another conversation. I’d tell him about the stories I have in my mind that are inspired by Studio Ghibli. That I, too, find little bits of magic in our world and amplify them in my stories.
“Hey,” I say, and he jumps, but smiles when he sees me. “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Are you done with your shift?”
“Yes?”
“Good.” He straightens and I have to tilt my head back a bit to look him in the eyes. “I’m taking you home.”
Oh my God.
“You don’t have to do that.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to keep paying me back for saving Lama. Taking me home means you’re spending more time outside. As a target.”
My palms start sweating with the way he’s staring at me. It’s as if he’s tuned everyone out and I’m the only one here.
“Salama.” My heart skips a beat when he pronounces my name. All soft and warm. “I want to do this.”
Well, if he wants to, the foolish part whispers to me,then let him.
“Unless I’m bothering you,” he says hastily, his face stricken with panic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize—”
I shake my head quickly. “No, you’re not. I promise.”
He smiles hesitantly and every worry flies out of my head.
We walk side by side, our footsteps echoing over the gravel, the sounds magnified against my ears. The rustling of dead leaves, a sad bird’s cries atop the bare branches, and the faint arguing of people standing outside their houses. I can hear each breath he takes, and my heartbeat is deafening against my eardrums.
I glance at my hands and see splotches of red pigmenting my skin. Red like Samar’s blood. I bite back a shriek because I’m sure I washed my hands. I spent ten minutes doing it. When I look again, the red is gone, but the sounds all around me are still screaming:murderer.
“Salama.”Kenan’s voice cuts through the shrieks and I stop, gasping in a sharp breath.
I take in my surroundings, and realize I’m sitting on the ground with Kenan standing in front of me. His expression is fearful in the crease between his eyes.
For me, I realize.
“Salama, are you all right?” He crouches beside me. “Are you hurt?”
