I nod, my throat slick with secrets and regrets.
The next morning, as soon as I step inside the hospital, I make a beeline toward Am. He’s stationed in the main atrium, looking out the window.
“Am,” I say, and his gaze snaps to me.
“Salama.”
I pull out one Panadol tablet and drop it in his hand. “I need a place for one more person.”
He stares at me with disbelief. “And next week there’ll be another one. And another and another.”
“No,” I force out. “Just this one.”
He waves the tablet in front of me. “You only have so much leverage, Salama. The Panadol won’t be enough for a discount.”
“You’re already getting my gold!”
He half shrugs and flicks the cigarette butt to the ground before grinding it under the heel of his boot. “Not enough. What’s more important? Gold or a person’s life?”
I want to scoff, to strike him across the face for the hypocrisy coating his tongue. Instead, I mutter, “A ring.”
He mulls it over. “Fine.”
The faraway sound of a crash makes us both start, but the moment passes and outside, a few birds take to the cloud-speckled sky.
Am fiddles with a cigarette. When he looks at me again, it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“What?” I say defensively, folding my arms.
“Have you always been so”—he gestures at me—“hollow?”
Self-consciously, I fuss with my hijab, tugging it across my other shoulder. I’m sure it would delight him to know that the guilt of what I’ve done has turned me into skin and bone. But before I can answer, Dr. Ziad calls my name and I turn around to see him waving me over, a frantic look in his eyes.
I hurry to him, my heart beating wildly in my throat.
“Doctor, what is it?” I ask, and he glances around quickly before leading me to a corner of the atrium.
“Did you hear what happened yesterday in Karam el-Zeitoun?” His voice is hushed, a strangle of pain.
My mouth goes dry and I shake my head.
“The military… they mass—” He stops, pain glazing his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Women and children with slit throats. None left alive. Not a single gunshot. The children… they were—” He loses his composure once more, his eyes glistening, and mine burn with tears. “They were hit with blunt objects, and one girl was severely mutilated. The neighborhoods beside them heard the screams. The Free Syrian Army confirmed it to me just now.”
My stomach churns and I manage to whisper, “What… we’re next, aren’t we?”
He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his back, all traces of horror fading from his expression. He’s our head doctor—from him we get our strength. If he crumbles, we all fall. “The FSA was able to get vital intel about an attack planned nearby for this morning and they’ve warned all the hospitals. It’s worse than anything we’ve had.”
“Worse than missiles?” I ask, unable to imagine what else they could use.
He nods and I notice the vessels in his eyes are more pronounced—redder.
“Like what?”
He takes a deep breath that gets lost somewhere in his lungs. “Attacks that violate the Geneva Convention.”
I frown. “So everything they’ve done up till now is legal?”
“No, of course not!” he exclaims, rubbing his eyes, and his hands tremble. “But this is taboo.” Sweat glistens on his forehead.
