I snort. “Call it whatever you want, but don’t lie to me.”
During my break, I retreat to the stockroom, read the labels on the medications to help me calm down.
“Hey,” I hear Kenan say from the doorway.
My heart skips a beat and I banish the image of him beaten, blood pouring from his eye sockets. “Hey.”
“May I join you?” He plays with the hem of his sweater. His face is lined, his hair is in disarray, and he looks like he hasn’t slept either. The weight of his decision to leave must have taken a toll on him.
“Sure,” I say, and I wave my hand to the empty space in front of me. “How’s Lama?”
He sits down and leans back against one of the cabinets. “She’smuchbetter. Alhamdulillah. Her heartbeat is normal—I counted it myself. We’re making sure she’s drinking lots of water. Yusuf breathes easier now that she is.” He stretches his fingers and after a heartbeat says, “About tonight. You need to promise me something.”
“What?”
“We’ll be together. But if anything were to happen to me, you save yourself. If you see me get dragged away, you run. Understood?”
No. I don’t like this. “Kenan—”
His expression is fierce. “Salama, you promise me this.” When I don’t say anything, he repeats more firmly.“Salama.”
“Fine,” I whisper, hating even thinking about it. “I’ll—I’ll make sure your siblings find your uncle if…” I go quiet. I can’t even say it. “And if anything happens to me, please take care of Layla.”
“I will.” He cracks his knuckles.
“I’ve told Yusuf where Layla lives, in case both of us…” And his words die out as well.
“Right.”
His eyes study me, and I fight the urge to cover my face. Instead, I clear my throat and grab a medication box.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“My favorite,” I answer, happy to focus on something other than the way he’s staring at me. “Epinephrine. Magic drug of the heart. It saves so many lives.”
“How is it given?” he asks, his voice low, and I feel like I might need a shot of it myself.
“Straight to the heart. But it doesn’t matter really. It’s intravenous and works instantly.”
He nods but doesn’t stop staring, and I start to wonder if there’s something on my face. “Um, is—”
“How do your eyes always shine so brightly?” he interrupts.
“What?” I laugh.
“When I first met you, I thought it was a trick of the light. But that isn’t it. This stockroom has horrible lighting, and they still look like melted honey.”
My breath catches in my throat. His face turns red, and he breaks the stare, glancing toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to be so forward.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, fidgeting with the epinephrine box. Me? Beautiful eyes? Haven’t heard that one in a while.
Voices drift through the open door. “They killed him. The man with the roses.”
“Ghiath Matar?” an old woman says, shocked.
“Yes. All he did was give the military flowers. His wife is pregnant with their son. It’s right here on Facebook. He’s been tortured to death.”
