I DON’T MOVE FROM AHMAD’S BODY FOR A LONG time. I don’t even let go of his hands. Pressing them to my lips, I try to will life into him again. The background noises are muted in my ears. All I hear, stuck on repeat like a broken cassette: I will tell God everything.
Gooseflesh erupts on my neck, and I’m chilled to the bone. I half expect God’s wrath to strike down.
A hand taps on my back. I ignore it. I don’t even hear what the person is saying.
“Hey!” The tapping increases and borders on annoying. I’m grieving a
boy I never knew, but who I let down.
“What?” I snap, turning around.
It’s a boy. My age or older. He’s panting and shaking. His hands can’t keep steady; they’re running over his face and tawny curls; his green eyes are wild. He looks familiar and it takes me a second to realize it’s the boy from yesterday, who was carrying a little girl in his arms.
“Please… please! You have to help me.” He jumps over his words, shoulders trembling.
His tone jerks me back to reality. Ahmad may have died, but the living are still here. I push my grief down into the dark edges of my mind. I’ll deal with it later.
I jump to my feet. “Yes? What happened?”
“My sister—please—she came in yesterday because of the bomb—there was shrapnel in her stomach—it was taken out—we took her home— hospital said there’s no space—they said she’d be okay—please—just—” he stammers, unable to keep up with the pace of his words from pure terror.
I snap my fingers in front of him. “Hey! I need you to calm down. Deep breaths, right now.”
He stops himself and tries to breathe but it’s pitiful. He can’t keep it in long enough.
“My sister,” he begins in a forced calm tone. A vein pounds in his throat. “Last night, she got this fever, and it hasn’t broken all day. Even when I gave her Panadol. It’s bad. Really bad. She’s vomited three times, and I can’t carry her here. Every time I try to move her, she screams in pain.
Please… you have to help me.”
I immediately know what it is. Reluctantly, I take my lab coat off little Ahmad’s body. I don’t even get to say goodbye.
I look around to see if any of the doctors might be able to help, but each of them seems to be caught up with their own patients. I have to do this by myself. When I started here a few months ago, I saw how Dr. Ziad goes above and beyond for his patients, which made me want to do the same.
Despite his objections. Because I know the consequences if I don’t do just that. I learned how to take out shrapnel, sew gaping wounds, and attempt to stop death all by myself. I became a surgeon by force. Removed enough bullets to melt down the steel and build a car. Grabbing the emergency surgical bag, I motion for the boy to lead.
“Where do you live?” I ask as we hurry through the chilly afternoon.
His eyes are trained to the skies and tops of buildings; he’s looking for snipers and planes. “Just a few roads ahead. Doctor, why is she in pain? Do you know?”
I hesitate for a few seconds before replying. “I think there’s probably a
piece of shrapnel inside her wound.”
He mumbles a curse word.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No. With the hospital overstretched like this, I understand how it could happen. At least it’s one piece.”
I hope it’s one.
“How old is she?”
“Nine.”
Dammit. Likely starved and highly vulnerable to infection.
“We have to hurry.”
He picks up the pace, and I follow him through the old alleys of our torn-up city. A few people are out, either deep in conversation or waiting in line at the bakery.
“I’m Kenan,” he says suddenly, and I turn toward him, distracted.
“What?”
“Kenan,” he repeats, and manages a small smile.
“Salama,” I say. His name feels familiar, like I heard it in a dream once.
But before I can try unraveling that faint thread of recognition, he stops.
In front of us is a building. Or what’s left of it. Like every building around, it’s been affected by the many stray shells and gunshots. The paint is chipped and peeling off, layer by layer. It’s five stories high and must have been brown once.
Kenan opens the building’s front door slowly and gives me a tentative look. I frown, not understanding. His whole demeanor changes. Like he’s ashamed. We walk up the concrete stairs, which are chipped at the edges, until we reach the second floor. Their door is wooden and old and opens up to the living room, which looks as if a small bomb exploded right in the middle. Broken furniture, deteriorating walls, and dusty ripped rugs. On the other side, I’m taken aback by the state of the balcony. It’s more than half destroyed; chunks of it have clearly fallen down to the streets below. A huge hole allows for gusts of the winter wind to freeze those inside.
Standing close to the edge would put you in danger of falling over.
He calls out and one of his siblings, I guess, hurries to him. He’s young, banging on the door of his teenage years. There’s a big hole in the side of his shirt, and his jeans hang loosely on him.
I can hear their sister moaning from where she’s lying on the floor in the living room. I need to work fast. Kenan sinks to his knees beside her and asks if she’s okay, whispering encouragements and love. The younger boy stands beside the doorway, fidgeting with his hands and throwing nervous glances to the little girl.
“Lama, this is the doctor. She’s going to help you.”
The little girl gasps for air before nodding. Her whole face is twisted with pain. I sit beside her.
“Lama, honey. I want to help you, but you have to help me first. All
right?”
She nods again.
“Did they give her blood at the hospital yesterday?” I ask Kenan, taking out the tools I need.
“Yes,” he breathes. “One of the doctors donated. O-negative maybe?”
I nod and unbutton her shirt. Her skin is translucent, and her ribs are sticking out like Ahmad’s were. I can’t have tears blurring my sight so I command myself not to cry. Kenan holds her hand and keeps on talking, trying to distract her from her agony. She yelps in pain when I take off her sweat-soaked shirt. I press a palm to her hot forehead.
“Lama, where’s the pain coming from?”
“My—my stomach,” she gasps, sweat trickling down her cheek. I cut her bandages as carefully as I can and say, “I’m going to press my hand on your stomach, and when the pain is too much, tell me.”
She nods. Kenan watches my every movement with tear-filled eyes. I’m astonished at my own composure. The moment I touch her abdomen, she
screams.
Shit.
I apply pressure, and she screams even louder.
Daisies. Daisies. Daisies, I recite to myself, steadying my hand.
“What are you doing?” Kenan says hoarsely.
“I need to find out where the shrapnel is.”
Lama continues to scream, but I can’t stop. I must feel the edge of a metallic object pushing against my hand.
“You’re hurting her!” he yells.
I silence him with a look I learned from Mama. “You think I want to do this? I need to find out where it is!”
He goes quiet, but I can see the fire raging in his eyes.
“She has bruising and stitches everywhere. I can’t make out which the shrapnel is responsible for. That is why I’m doing this.”
He nods, his face white as a sheet.
“Lama, you need to tell me when the pain is worse, okay? You’re so brave, and I know you’re going to be strong now too. All right?”
She squeezes out a few more tears before nodding again.
“Good girl.”
I press gently, making a line down her stomach. She grits her teeth and doesn’t scream anymore, but her breaths come out in short bursts until I
reach just below her belly button.
“Here!” she shrieks.
I immediately stop. I felt its edge before she told me.
“Good job, Lama.” I breathe in, trying to make my tone lighter. “You’re
amazing. Now all that’s left is to get the shrapnel out.”
“Do it,” Kenan says.
“I just—” I swallow the acid in my mouth and look at him. “It’s going to
be a bit difficult.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. How do I say this?
“I need—”
“You need to cut into her stomach, and there’s no anesthesia.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Kenan runs his hand through his hair and over his face, torn.
“I need to do this right now. Before the shrapnel moves and ends up God
knows where.”
His breathing shatters.
“Do it. We have no choice. Just do it.” His tone is as pained as his
sister’s.
“Get her something to bite on.”
He takes off his belt.
“Lama, I’m so sorry. I know you’re in pain, but you can do this. I’m
here. Your brothers are here.”
She starts crying.
“Bite on the belt,” I tell her.
This isn’t what I ever envisioned myself doing. I was supposed to be a pharmacist. I wasn’t supposed to cut into children’s stomachs in their homes.
My hands shake as I take out the disinfectant and a scalpel. Until now, every time I’ve operated alone has been at the hospital, with Dr. Ziad always somewhere nearby in case I messed up. It’s reassuring to know he’s there.
But here, if I slip, if I cut a vein or cause even more internal bleeding, she will die. And I’ll have murdered her.
I shut my eyes tightly, try to regulate my breathing and think of the daisies.
“Hey,” I hear Kenan saying. “Are you okay?”
I immediately open my eyes.
“Yes,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice doesn’t break. All the times I’ve needed to keep a cool head at the hospital are paying off. His eyes go
soft, and I think he can read the fear I’m frantically trying to hide. I ignore the quick flash of hesitance darting across his expression.
I look at Lama, who’s staring up at the ceiling with tears glistening in her eyes. Her lips quiver where she bites on the belt. She’s too young for this.
God, please guide my hand, and let me save this poor girl.
I disinfect her stomach and the scalpel and look at Kenan. This is going to hurt him far more than it’ll hurt her.
“Hold her hand,” I instruct him.
He nods, white-faced. I press the cool metal against her stomach, and she winces.
“Lama, look only at me,” her brother says.
I take a deep breath and move the scalpel down in a small cut. It doesn’t stop Lama from howling. She tries to push me away, kicking her legs all the while, but Kenan holds her down.
“Lama, please, I need you to stay still!” I say, working as fast as I can.
Blood spurts out of the wound I made, and I dig in two fingers to feel for the shrapnel. She sobs, begging me to stop. I feel like a monster. But there’s no time for me to be delicate. The tip of my finger brushes against a pointy edge.
“Found it!” I yell and clamp on it. It’s lodged in a shallow area, away from her large intestine, and I nearly keel over with relief. Despite that, I pray hard it isn’t causing any internal bleeding. I pull out slowly. This was a close one. Carefully, I make sure there is no more debris sticking around before stitching her wound up. Every puncture through her skin sends a fresh wave of pain for her, Kenan, and me. The suture is ugly and will definitely leave a scar, but she’s alive and that’s all that matters. I press around her stomach, making sure there’s nothing else.
“I’m done.” Panting hard, as if I’d run a marathon, I start gently wrapping her with a set of fresh bandages.
Kenan’s face sags with relief. He kisses her forehead, smoothing away her sweat-soaked hair.
“You did amazing, Lama. I’m so proud of you. You’re so brave.” Their tears mix together. She smiles weakly, her eyes drooping with exhaustion.
But my work is still not done. I get up to wash her blood off my hands only to remember that the water is cut off.
“Here,” I hear Kenan say from behind me. He holds a big bucket of water, which they probably use to drink and cook.
I shake my head. “I can’t do that. You need this water. I’ll wipe them back at the hospital.”
“Don’t be silly. Come here and wash the blood off you. We have buckets
of water.”
No one has buckets of water.
But I take it from him. The water runs over my scars like little streams washing away the blood.
“Did the hospital give you any antibiotics?” I dry my hands on my yellowed lab coat.
“Yes.” He takes them out of his pocket and hands them to me.
Cephalexin, 250 milligrams.
“Give her two tablets every twelve hours for seven days.”
He hurries over to her and makes her swallow two of them. She complains that her sides still hurt but takes the pills. Their brother emerges from behind the door and sits beside her, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. He sniffs, rubbing his red eyes, and she smiles slightly before closing her own. Her fatigue is so palpable I feel it on my own skin.
I look at my watch. It’s nearing six p.m. I have to get back to Layla.
Kenan walks back over to me.
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I don’t know what else to say.”
I wave off his appreciation. “It’s not a big deal. Just doing my job. And I’m a pharmacist.”
“I guess this isn’t in your job description,” he says, looking at me with awe. Adrenaline shoots through my system once again and I look away.
There’s life in his eyes. Something I’m not used to seeing outside of Layla’s. “And you’re young.”
I fiddle with my fingers. “Not that much younger than you.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I think it’s amazing
that you can do all of this.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Circumstances.”
“Yeah,” he says, and his gaze lingers on me for a few seconds before he looks away. His cheeks turn pink.
I clear my throat and gesture toward Lama. “Now, your sister won’t be able to eat anything for a while. That’s where fluids will play a role. Let her
drink as much as she can. Soup, water, juice… anything really. Fruits too. If there are any.”
He’s nodding at every word I’m saying, storing them in his head. I can see him try and work out where he’ll be able to get all these things. They aren’t starving by choice. I don’t ask where his parents are. If they’re not here, then it’s not a mystery what happened to them.
“I’ll be at the hospital if you need anything. When she can move a bit, bring her there so we can see what more we can do.”
“Thank you.”
I hoist the surgical bag over my shoulder. “Again, no problem.”
He walks with me downstairs. “I’ll take you back to the hospital.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m going home anyway. Your sister needs you more.”
He looks torn between wanting to be chivalrous and staying for his
sister.
“It’s fine,” I repeat more firmly.
“Let me at least see you out,” he says, and I nod.
We walk together, going down the stairs in silence. At the front door, I
turn toward him and he smiles.
“Thank you again,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, and step over the threshold.
“Take—” But his voice is drowned out when shots rip through the air. I whirl in fright to see his eyes widening, and immediately he grabs my arm and pulls me inside.
“Hey!” I protest, wrenching myself out of his grip, but he doesn’t notice, instead slamming the door shut.
He holds a finger to his lips and presses his ear against the metal frame.
I wait with bated breath, praying it’s not what I think it is. Hope shrivels away when more shots follow and our worst suspicions are confirmed.
“It’s not safe,” he finally says.
“Obviously. I need to go.” I move to the side, but he blocks the space.
“It’s probably the military clashing with the protestors. You need to stay indoors until it’s over. They’ll have snipers all over the buildings.”
Even though this is expected to happen at any time, I start to panic.
Layla’s alone. I can’t leave her like that the whole night.
“I have to go. Layla needs me,” I echo again.
“Who’s Layla?”
“My friend. She’s my sister-in-law, too, and seven months pregnant. I can’t leave her.”
“How are you going to be any help to her if you’re dead or captured?” he says forcefully, forming a body shield against the door.
Goddammit.
“Can’t you call her?”
“We have phones, but we don’t use them. I’m too scared the military will track them and know she’s alone.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, then takes out an old Nokia. “This is like a burner phone. It’s only used to call people. You can use it.”
“How the hell did you get one?”
“Do you want to ask questions, or do you want to call her?” He hands it to me and heads back upstairs.
Kenan pauses halfway up and then says, “Don’t run into death.”
I nod, and he disappears.
I dial her number, my heart beating loudly as the beeps go by. She doesn’t pick up, and I nearly faint from terror. Three more times. No answer.
Khawf materializes in front of me, and the uneasiness opens the blackest
hole in my heart.
“What’s happening?” I gasp.
“Imagine if she’s in labor right now,” he says.
The earth shakes under me.
“These are the choices you make every day, Salama.” He stands closer, regarding me with pity. “You’re gambling with Layla’s life. Not to mention the life of her unborn child. Your niece. Which is more important? The patients or Layla and her baby?”
I hear my bones cracking under the weight of his words. I remember Layla’s anguish when Hamza was taken. How she spent weeks screaming and clutching her stomach, wishing to die, her torment overflowing like a flood, threatening to drown her.
I imagine what Hamza would say to me if I let any harm come to Layla.
If she died because of me.
