I fiddle with the end of my hijab. “How’s—how’s Samar?”
His stare is filled with dislike. “Fine.”
“Her stitches?”
“I said she’s fine,” he snaps. “Look, this is a business transaction, all right? You give me money and I give you a boat. We don’t have to get all personal.”
My throat is dry, so I nod.
He moves past me but halts for a second. “Don’t think about asking for forgiveness,” he says and walks away.
My stomach churns with the buildup of gastric acid and I scuttle to the medicine stockroom. I slide against the wall, my breaths irregular and a dull ache pounding behind my eyes.
“Forget him,” Khawf says, and I start.
He stands a few feet away from me, examining a red box of aripiprazole. “Forget what he said, Salama. He’s not the bigger picture. Germany is. Your new life with Layla and her baby.”
Hawthorn. Red berries that can be used to lower blood pressure. Have excellent antioxidant properties and strengthen the cardiac muscle. Hawthorn. Hawthorn. Hawthorn.
I stay in the stockroom a bit longer until I can see those white hawthorn petals behind my closed eyelids. Then I walk outside to face whatever fresh hell barges through the doors.
This time when the victims from a sniper shooting are rolled in around noon, I stand strong, pushing down my terror to make up for what I’ve done. Amid the bodies and the screaming, I see Kenan standing to the side, his camera covering half his face.
And no matter how much I try to beat death, he still wins. I close five pairs of eyes today. Three children, one young woman, and one young man. Their faces smeared with blood, their mouths hanging open, an expression of betrayal forever etched on their faces.
I recite Al-Fatiha for their souls and feel Kenan standing beside me.
“Everything okay?” he murmurs.
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the corpses.
“Salama,” Kenan says gently. “Let’s go. Take me to Am.”
I don’t move.
His fingers tentatively brush the cuff of my sleeve and I inhale sharply. “You did everything you could. This isn’t your fault.”
My lips quiver and I swallow my cries.
“Yalla,” he says, and I allow myself to turn away.
The main atrium is filled with new and old faces. We find Am standing beside the back door, where the martyrs are transported to the cemetery.
I don’t even hear what Am and Kenan talk about, my thoughts becoming too dark and twisted, blaming me that I was too slow, too pathetic to save lives.
“Salama.” Kenan’s voice cuts through the air and I look up at him.
He looks stricken, and Am is watching me curiously. I glance down and see I’ve been digging my nails into my palms while shaking all over.
“I’m fine,” I say in a hollow voice.
Am makes a disgruntled sound, and before Kenan can say anything, he says, “We’ll provide you with the life jackets, but that’s it. Carry little. Everything but your lives can be replaced.”
“I have to go,” I say suddenly, and Kenan turns to me.
“Okay.” He moves toward me. “Let me get—”
I shake my head, holding up a hand. “It’s fine.”
