stones. Snatch up the bag and fly back, bursting into
the house less than a minute later.
I hold my trophy above my head. “Got it!”
There are no shots. No crack of gunfire. The
hills remain wild and empty.
“He must be gone,” Bushra says.
“I’ll get another bag,” I say. I peer out the gaping
windows. Check the empty land.
And I’m off again.
I’m twenty paces along when I see the shooter in
the middle of the road, rifling through our luggage.
The gun is held aloft and ready to shoot.
I try to stop myself, but I’m at full pelt. I slither
and slide over loose shale. I slew to a stop. It’s too
late to retreat. I’ve already been seen. My heart leaps
to my throat when the shooter’s head rises. I stare
straight into the sniper’s eyes.
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8
The shooter is a girl. She looks about the same age
as me. I stare at her, unable to tear my gaze from her
face. Her eyes mesmerize me. They’re dark, almost
black. They hold more anger and sadness than I’ve
ever seen. And something else too, something hid-
den deep that reminds me of the wild cat that reared
her ginger kittens in the alley behind our house. She
spat and hissed if you went closer than ten paces.
This girl looks ready to spit and hiss too.
Her tangle of black matted hair is tied off her
scrawny face with a bright beaded keffiyeh, but otherwise allowed to stick out however it likes. She is
dressed in a striped cotton tunic. Long skirts. Beaded
waistcoat. She crouches over my sports bag, one of her
filthy hands on the zip, the other gripping her rifle. My eyes flicker to the gun, but that’s not what freezes me
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to the spot. It’s her stare. She has a dangerous and defiant stare. She looks me up and down as though I am in
the wrong. As though trying to decide whether or not
to shoot me. I want to turn and run, but I can’t move.
“Why?” I say. It’s all I can think of.
“Food.” Her voice is dry, her lips cracked.
“There’s none.”
“Water.”
She has lines around her eyes like Dapir. Tired
lines. She’s too young to have an old person’s lines.
And sores around her mouth.
“There’s no water either,” I say.
“Everyone has food and water.”
She tugs open the zipper and yanks out my
clothes, my games. Flings them to the road.
“Hey! Those are mine.” Anger overrides my fear.
She jerks her head up. “Where is the food and
water?”
“Inside.” I point back toward the house.
Her dark eyes flicker and then flash back to me.
“Get it.”
“Come with me,” I say, though as soon as the
words are out of my mouth, I regret my dangerous
challenge. My family is safe for now. If I bring this
girl in, that could change.
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She lifts her gun. “Get it or I’ll kill you.”
A girl of action, clearly not open to conversa-
tion. I decide she’s bluffing. I don’t think she ever
intended to hit us earlier, only spook us. Maybe she’s
not a poor shot at all, just a reluctant sniper. And
desperate for food and water.
“Wait here,” I say.
Inside the house, Bushra and Alan spin around to
see if I’ve managed to get another bag. I take bread
and cheese from our leftover meal and a bottle of
water. Baba watches me but says nothing.
“What are you doing?” Dayah says.
“Back in a minute,” I say.
Outside, the girl has discarded my bag. The zip-
per is open, but she’s stuffed my belongings back.
She waits, gun beside her. When I step close to
hand over the food, she stiffens and swings up the
weapon. I stop short, place the food on my bag and
step back. She pounces. Stuffs bread and cheese into
her mouth, gulps down water. She packs some food
inside her tunic.
“Medicine?” she says.
She doesn’t look in need of medicine. But maybe
other snipers are in the hills. Others who need medi-
cine and the food she’s hidden.
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“What medicine?” I say.
She reaches for her gun. “Get it or I’ll kill you.”
Here we go again.
“I need to know what medicine,” I say.
“I don’t know.”
I sigh. “Wait.”
I return to the house and, again, everyone turns
to see. “The shooter is outside,” I say. “A girl. She
needs medicine.”
“Is she threatening you?” Baba says.
“I don’t think she’s going to kill us. But she has
a gun.”
“Well, that’s one way to get help.” He gets his
medical pouch.
“Can I come?” Alan says.
“You stay right here,” says Dayah. She pulls Alan
into her lap, looks at me and Baba. “Be careful.”
When she sees my father, the girl retreats and lifts
her gun. “Who’s this?”
“The man with the medicine,” I say.
“I don’t want him.” Her voice is raised now,
dark eyes flashing anger. Her gaze jumps from my
face to Baba’s.
“I have medicine,” Baba says. “I can help. Put
down your gun.”
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The girl hesitates. She still holds her gun but doesn’t point it. Her eyes don’t flash the same anger.
She jerks her head toward me.
“He comes too,” she says. Baba looks at me. I nod.
She leads us up ancient goat trails and sheep paths,
through scrubby grass and meadows of mountain
flowers, toward the cluster of small ruins Alan spot-
ted earlier. She leaps with ease across small ravines
and cuts in the hills. Baba and I are slower. Several
times she waits for us to catch up.
We’re out of breath by the time we reach the
settlement. There are a couple of outhouses, a little
courtyard, fields, an outhouse off to one side. Most of
it is in ruins. Tufts of grass and weeds poke through
broken slabs. Nobody has lived here for a long time.
“Wait here,” the girl says.
She disappears into one of the buildings. When
she returns, the gun and the food she stuffed inside
her clothes are both gone.
“Come on,” she says to Baba. And to me, “Wait.”
Baba follows her into the house. A rash of fear
prickles the back of my neck. I hold my breath. Lis-
ten for gunshots or raised voices but only the soft
sigh of wind whispers through the grasses and bobs
the heads of tiny flowers. I gaze down the hillside
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to where the others are sheltering in the little stone house. Sweat itches my back.
Baba and the girl are gone a long time. The sun is
dropping in the sky by the time they come out. The
girl carries an armful of clothing, her gun, an old bag
stuffed with belongings. An ammunition belt with
bullets is slung around her body. She glances at me an
d
again I see something a little wild, a little frightening in her dark eyes. Baba follows, carrying a small bundle
wrapped in filthy blankets. I can’t see who is inside.
“Get my bag, Ghalib,” Baba says. He jerks his
head toward the doorway behind him. “Then lead
me down the hill.”
Inside the little house my eyes take a moment to
adjust to the dim light. I search the dark corners, but
the place is empty. No furniture either. They were
sleeping on the earth floor. From the smell of the
place, they haven’t been using the privy. A bundle of
soiled blankets is bunched in the corner, the remains
of the food scattered next to it. I snatch up Baba’s
pouch and run out, eager to get back to the clean air.
The descent is slower than our climb. Baba
moves slowly down the hillside with his bundle. I
stay close to warn him of gaps between the rocks
where he could fall. The girl hops and leaps ahead
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of us. She’s familiar with the layout of the land, but anxious about the person in Baba’s arms. She repeat-edly circles back to check under the blanket, touch-
ing the feet, the hands. Her concern is unexpected,
in stark contrast with her hostility toward us. She
ignores me entirely, in spite of wanting me to come
in the first place. Eventually we step onto the road.
The air blues with evening as we enter the little ruin.
Dayah jumps up to help when she sees Baba with
a patient. “What happened?”
The girl hangs back at the open doorway watch-
ing us with dark eyes, taking in everything. Her
movements are restless and agitated.
“High fever,” Baba says. “Dehydration. Not
taking anything by mouth. We need to bring his
temperature down. Set up an IV.”
He pulls the blankets open. A small boy—younger
than Alan—lies in soiled clothes, his eyes sunken and
closed, long lashes flickering. His pale limbs are thin, the skin dry. Dayah pulls off his filthy clothing and
stained blankets, washes him with a damp cloth. I fill
a water bottle from the large keg and mix in rehydra-
tion salts. Baba sets it up with a syringe to get fluids into the boy. He lays him on one of our bedrolls. In
spite of his weakness, the boy refuses to let go of a
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grubby headscarf gripped in one hand, pulling it to his crusted lips like a comfort blanket.
“Bring the bags in, Bushra,” Dayah says. “We’re
staying overnight.”
“Here?” Bushra says. “This isn’t even a place. It’s a ruin. There’s no roof or door. Have you noticed?”
“Ghalib will help,” Dayah says.
Bushra and I gather the bags, no longer in fear of
being shot.
“Why are we helping a sniper?” Bushra says. “She still has her gun with her.”
“A good reason to help her,” I say. “Just don’t
make her angry.”
We stack the bags against the wall.
“I’m not sleeping near someone who tried to kill
us,” Bushra says.
“That’s enough, Bushra,” Baba says.
There’s no more discussion, but Bushra makes
her feelings clear. She sighs. Throws her eyes up to
the sky. Turns her back on the girl.
The temperature drops with the sun. We light
a little fire with wood we find behind the house,
heat water for sweet tea and sit under the stars. The
girl remains at the threshold, crouched among her
bags and blankets, gun propped across her lap. She
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accepts a cup of sweet tea when I bring it to her but says nothing. Soon after it gets dark, we lay out our
quilts and blankets around the blaze and settle down
for the night. Baba stays close to his patient, adjust-
ing the drip, checking his temperature. Bushra stays
as far as possible from the girl, taking herself to the
other side of the house.
I lie awake for a long time, listening to insects and
little creeping creatures. To the snap and crackle of
the fire. To the breathing of Dapir and Dayah. Before
I finally fall asleep, I turn to where Bushra lies.
“Second night away from home, Bushra.” My
voice is soft, only a whisper. But she hears.
“Not a good place, Ghalib,” she says.
---
I wake to brilliant sunlight shining through the open
roof. The ground beneath me is hard and rocky. My
back is sore but the morning is clear and bright, and
already the fire is lit to heat water. Dapir, Bushra,
and Alan are still asleep, bundled together under
blankets. Dayah prepares what food we have left for
breakfast. Baba leans over the boy, checking how he
is. The girl is curled next to him, sharing his quilt.
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She must have sneaked in sometime during the night. She’s asleep.
I creep to Baba’s side. “How is he?”
“Doing well. On his third infusion with
antibiotics.”
The girl stirs. Her dark eyes fly open. She leaps
from the ground onto her haunches, instantly alert.
Her fingers tighten around her gun. She flashes her
gaze to the boy, reaching to touch his face with her
grubby fingertips. Her sudden softness is startling.
The boy doesn’t stir. The girl looks at my father.
“He’s fine,” Baba says. “He’s sleeping and his
temperature has come down.”
The girl checks where everyone is, as though
confirming her safety. Her shoulders drop a little.
Her wariness eases.
“What’s his name?” Baba says.
She looks at him with her startling black eyes.
She glances at me. “Amin,” says the girl.
“Your brother?”
She nods.
“And your name?”
She says nothing at first, chewing her lip before
she answers. “Safaa,” she says eventually.
“Where are your parents, Safaa?” Baba says.
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“Killed.” Her voice is little more than a whisper.
“In the war?”
She nods.
“We’ll wake Amin in a little while and see if we
can get him to eat,” Baba says.
Dayah brings us each a cup of sweet tea. “Sip it
slowly,” she says. “It’s the last of the water.”
By the time the air warms, everyone is up and
moving around. Alan is stiff in the morning. It takes
him a little while to get his bad leg going. He hops
around awkwardly, peering curiously at Amin and
Safaa. For her part, Safaa spends a fair amount of
time staring at him, or more particularly at his bad
leg, but with none of the hostility she reserves for
the rest of us. Bushra and Safaa ignore each other
completely.
We spread out our bedding to dry in the morn-
ing sun, then eat the last of the bread and cheese.
“We need to get more food in the next village,”
Dayah says.
“What’s left?” I say.
“Eggs. A few tomatoes.”
“That’s it?” says Bushra. “We have to walk
through a desert with no water?”
“Tal Al Karama is an hour away,” says Safaa.
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We stare at her in surprise. It’s the first thing she has volunteered.
It turns out we don’t need to wake Amin.
Maybe the medicines have taken effect, or our
voices penetrate his slumber, or the warm sunlight
rouses him, but he sits up unexpectedly and looks
around, matted hair clumped and sticking out in all
directions, much like his sister’s.
“Safaa?” he says in a broken little voice.
She is beside him in an instant, muttering soothing
words. Stroking his face and hands. Baba examines
him, encourages him to eat small pieces of bread, to
sip a little cooled sweet tea. Considering how sick
he was, Amin comes around quickly. He’s scrawny
and pale, but his shriveled look has faded. Dayah
gives Safaa some of Alan’s clean clothes to dress her
brother. Safaa rolls up the legs of the tracksuit, tucks in the clean T-shirt. Amin manages a few wobbly
steps, clinging to Safaa’s arm. Alan is fascinated by
him and hovers close by.
“You can’t stay up in those hills,” Baba says to
Safaa. “He’s not well enough yet. He needs proper
care, and you both need food.”
He looks at her and Amin. A look passes between
him and Dayah that means more than we’re supposed
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to know. Alan is too young and doesn’t notice, while Bushra doesn’t want anything to do with Safaa. But
I notice. And I understand.
“Will you and Amin come with us?” Baba says.
“You’re welcome to travel with my family as far as
the village. Farther if you wish.”
“Baba!” Bushra says. I hear the hiss in her words.
“We can’t!”
But even as Bushra speaks, dark anger surges into
Safaa’s face. It flashes in her eyes. She stares at Baba with that defiant look that mesmerized me the first
time I saw her. “I don’t need your help.”
“I think you do,” Baba says. His voice is quiet.
“You can’t stay here, Safaa,” Dayah says. Her
words are persuasive, her voice soft. “You won’t get
proper food or medicine by shooting travelers on the
road. What happens if Amin gets sick again? Or if
you get hurt?”
Anger gleams from Safaa’s dark eyes, but she lis-
tens to Dayah’s words. She hears the truth. One part
of my heart understands her conflict, her uncertainty.
“Come as far as Tal Al Karama,” Dayah says.
“You can leave us then if you choose.”
Ultimately it’s Amin who changes Safaa’s mind.
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