“Two extra seats,” I tell him.
Am frowns. “What?”
“I need two extra seats. Two thousand dollars.”
He lets out a short laugh. “No. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now,” I snap. “They’re children. They won’t be taking up much space.”
He stares at me stonily and I return it.
I fold my arms. “The gold necklace is worth more now. Probably at least three people. You’re also getting an extra two thousand dollars. Not to mention the Panadol. I think you’re profitingvery wellfrom me.”
His mouth curls into a sneer. “Fine. But I swear to God, Salama, if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, I will make you watch the boat leave while the military drags your sister away.”
My grip tightens on my lab coat. I don’t doubt his threat for a second and I want to claw at his face for daring to bring Layla into this. Instead, I try to answer in a steady tone, “I know.”
“Good. Tell your friend to bring half of the money tomorrow.”
Only hours later, a bomb filled with shrapnel hits an apartment building and the victims are carted into the hospital in fragments. The floors soon become slick with blood and the fresh metallic smell overtakes the stale air.
I work steadily, picking out the pieces of debris wedged between flesh and bone. I bandage and soothe. I close milky-white eyes with shaking fingers, and I murmur prayers for the martyrs’ souls. I work until my limbs protest with exhaustion and then I work even harder. Anything to shut out what I did yesterday. Each person laid out in front of me is Samar and each one I don’t save is Ahmad.
I don’t feel the time passing. Not until my brachii muscles scream and I let my scalpel clatter to the medical basin. It clangs loudly, spraying flecks of blood over my lab coat. My arms shake and my neck feels stiff. When I look up, my eyes cross and I sway a bit.
“Whoa!” I hear someone exclaim, and a hand grabs my arm before I collapse on the floor.
I see two Kenans wavering above me. Their hair sticks up from all sides, a sheen of sweat glistening on their foreheads and worry coating their eyes.
“Salama?” they ask, their voice distant and echoey. “Oh my God.”
I blink and Kenan’s one face refocuses. He’s near, so near. He looks up, searching the atrium for help, and I’m suddenly aware he’s half supporting me, one hand on my back. My feet find the ground, and it gives me the boost I need to push myself up and away from him. The lingering heat of his fingers is still pressed against my back, burning through the fabric into my skin.
“I’m sorry.” He raises his hands, embarrassed and pink. “You were falling and I—”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice raspy and throat rough. From misuse, from tightening its muscles the whole day, I don’t know. I look around and all I see is red and gray, figures slumped over one another and the miasma of despair clinging to the air. My head feels light from the lack of food and exhaustion, and I sway once again.
“Salama!”Kenan extends an arm and I hold on to it, my stomach twisting. I’m choking on the blood my hands are soaked in and I turn around to wash it away. My clothes stick to me like a second skin, and I need my brain to stop shouting at me.
“I need—” I say, then stop, feeling like I’m about to vomit.
He nods, quickly steering me away through the patients and flinging the front doors open. I’m confronted with the late winter wind, freezing the sweat on my face.
I’m supporting myself on his arm, gripping him tightly, trying to breathe through my nose and focus on anything but the gnawing sound of amputated bones.
Peonies. Fragrant flowers. A tonic from the petals can be used as a muscle relaxant. Peonies. Peonies. Peonies.
My legs still can’t carry me and I almost trip, but Kenan’s arm slips under mine, hauling me upward so my cheek is pressed against his jacket. The material is soft with wear and I take in his scent. Lemons. I have no idea how, but he smells like the freshest of lemons and it’s a comfort against the panic raging through me.
I’ve never been held close by a boy before, certainly not one I might actually like. Not someone to whom, in amightlife, I would be married by now. I glance up at him. He’s staring straight ahead. A faint, light brown scruff dusts his jaw and cheeks, and I have this sudden urge to touch it. The thought shocks me, stabilizes me. I press a quivering hand against my chest.
Oh, it would be so easy to fall in love, I think wistfully.So easy.
He glances down. “Are you okay?”
My breath hitches in my throat. I try desperately to gather at anything scientific to explain the act of falling in love. How long does it stay in the body incubating before I begin to show symptoms? Is it chronic or fleeting? Are the circumstances with the war a factor in speeding up the process?
Will my heart even care that I’ll be parted from him within a month?
