Kenan draws closer. “What?”
I take another deep breath and tell him everything. From how I couldn’t afford the boat to endangering Samar’s life for it. I don’t leave out any detail. By the end, my eyes are closed, hot tears pricking the edges.
“If I could take it back, I would,” I whisper.
Kenan’s hand finds mine and he squeezes it tightly, prompting me to look at him. There’s hurt in his eyes, but there’s also understanding.
“Is this why you’ve lost so much weight? And all the times you’ve vomited?” he asks.
A lump forms in my throat. Of course he’d notice that. “Yes,” I say, breathless.
He tugs me to him, and I fall against his chest. “You’ve paid your debts,” he whispers, wrapping his arm around me, and he kisses my forehead. “Samar is alive, you’ve made sure of it, and that’s all that matters.”
“But—”
He shakes his head fiercely. “We’re human, Salama. Pushed into a corner, we’re forced to make decisions we wouldn’t normally make. You were thinking of Layla when you did that. I’m not saying it was right, but you’ve suffered enough for it. You saved her life and you saved many,manyafter her.”
I swallow a sob and bury my face in the worn material of his sweater, breathing him in deeply.
He lifts my head up, brushing my hair back, and his touch awakens butterflies in my stomach. He looks solemn. “It’s okay.”
I press my forehead against his chest and a relieved sigh escapes me.
“I love you,” I murmur.
“I’M TALKING TO MY UNCLE TODAY TO SEE WHENhe’s coming to Syracuse,” Kenan says as I shrug on my lab coat. “I’ll check the grocery at the end of the street, and if they don’t have any lemons, I’ll go to the one by the hospital.”
“Okay. Be careful.” I stifle a yawn. We dozed off on the couch in the early hours of the morning when our sleep-deprived bodies couldn’t run on fumes anymore. But I was able to stomach the small tuna sandwich Kenan made me for breakfast. That alone has given me a boost of energy.
He kisses my cheek. “I’ll see you after your shift.”
When I get to the hospital, Dr. Ziad has me check on some of the patients whose respiratory systems have taken a major hit from the sarin. A few more passed during the night, most of them children, their faces still frozen in petrified expressions. I swallow down the breakfast threatening to come up. I hand out water and administer antibiotics and anesthetics until noon.
When I finally stumble into the main atrium, I find Dr. Ziad alone, and it strikes me as strange.
“Doctor, is everything all right?” I ask. I haven’t told him I’m leaving, not knowing how to put it into words, and guilt twists in my soul.
He grimaces. “The chemical attack has weakened the FSA’s defenses greatly. They’re finding it difficult to hold up against the military’s tanks.”
Air vanishes from my lungs. “What does that mean?”
“It means we need to pray. The FSA is doing everything they can, but we have no one but God now.”
I close my eyes, my lips mouthing a supplication.
Dr. Ziad smiles sadly. “If we die, Salama, at least we die doing the right thing. We die as martyrs.”
And I’ll see Layla, Baby Salama, Mama, and Baba again. Hopefully Hamza as well.
“Death doesn’t scare me, Doctor,” I whisper. “It’s being taken alive.”
He shudders, nodding. “Insh’Allah it doesn’t come to that.”
A patient calls for him and he walks away, leaving me stewing in my thoughts. It’s clear Dr. Ziad thinks we have but days, if not moments, of fragile safety before the walls come crashing down.
I have to find Am. I search all the patients’ rooms before locating him at the back door, chewing on a toothpick.
“Am,” I say, and he straightens.
