The doctor rubbed his eyes. It couldn’t be right. He was too tired. Too tired to think. The MRI must have malfunctioned. Poor imaging. Poor technical support. Everyone in the hospital was running on fumes, all the doctors, nurses, technicians, staff. It simply couldn’t be. It had to be a mistake.
But it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t.
He’d done his own exam.
Ammon watched him. “Doctor?” he asked.
The young physician looked at him. “Everything is going crazy. It can’t be what it seems.”
The overhead loudspeaker called the doctor’s name, ordering him to room three. He glanced quickly down the hallway, nodding toward a colleague, but didn’t move.
Ammon stared at him. Everything is going crazy. Yes it was. But he still had no idea what the doctor was talking about. “Crazy. Yes, sir, it’s crazy,” he said. “Tell you something else that’s crazy. That’s my brother lying there with a hole inside his chest. Now, we need to know what you’re going to do to help him—”
The doctor raised a hand to cut him off. “Are you certain?” he demanded. “You actually saw him shot?”
Ammon swallowed hard, dumbfounded at the persistence of the question, then shot a quick look at his mother. “Yes. We both were there.”
“And he was shot with what . . . what kind of gun?”
Ammon stared at the doctor, wondering what could be going through his mind. “I don’t know!” he answered in exasperation. “A handgun! BANG, BANG. A regular pistol. I’m not an expert on such things.”
“Look at this!” The doctor jabbed the pen again. “I’ve got an entry wound. I’ve got an exit wound. A hole here . . .” he moved the pen again . . . “a hole here. But no damage in between.” He turned to face Ammon and his mother. “Nothing. You understand that? The bullet should have passed directly through his pancreas and torn it to shreds. But it didn’t. The pancreas is undamaged. Clean as a whistle. Functioning perfectly. The metal should have perforated his small intestine. But it’s like the bullet entered, turned into water, passed through his intestines and pancreas, and shot out the back, all without doing any internal damage. I don’t know, I’m just a doctor, but that seems kind of strange to me.”
Ammon stood there, his eyes wide. Sara’s hands shot to her mouth and she gasped quietly. The doctor leaned against the wall, his face impatient. The loudspeaker called his name again. Half a dozen nurses and technicians moved quickly up and down the hall. Constant noise. Constant motion. Constant stress and urgency. Ammon knew that people were sick and dying all around them and the doctor had to go. He took a quick step forward, focusing on the doctor. “There’s no internal damage?” he quickly questioned.
“Nothing. I’ve examined the patient. There’s no damage except the entry and exit wounds. I’ve brought in a couple of colleagues. They’re as dumbfounded as I am. He’s got two flesh wounds, which will be painful, but they’ll heal quickly, I presume, unless you guys exercise the same magic that healed the internal damage, in which case I’m sure your brother will jump up any time and go waltzing out of here.”
Sara took a step back. “Are you certain, Doctor?”
“Of course I am.” He almost seemed angry. It was frustrating and mystifying and it bothered him that he didn’t have an explanation. Doctors were supposed to have the answers. Doctors were in charge. He was the trained physician, master of the emergency room, lord of his kingdom, speak a word and it was done.
But not now. Not with this case. He had no explanation, not a thing to offer. He was just as confused as the two people standing there with him. Turning, he dropped the medical chart in a green plastic box between the two beds.
Case closed. Time to move on.
Sara watched him, not saying anything, though her eyes conveyed every emotion in her soul. The doctor studied her, trying to read the look on her face. Surprise? He didn’t see it. It was almost as if she had expected what he’d told her. Confidence? Peace and acceptance? The doctor didn’t know.
She held her hand against her mouth again and stared at her sleeping son.
Ammon walked to stand beside her. “What do we do now?” he asked.
The doctor nodded to the hallway. “He doesn’t need to be here anymore. A week ago we would have kept him, but that isn’t an option today. We need the bed. We can’t spare the nurses or any attention from the doctors or other staff.
“So take him. Keep him down. Keep the wounds clean. Change the dressings twice a day. That’s about all I can tell you. You need to take him home.”
Home, Sara thought, and in an instant she was transported to the old plantation home back in Virginia. The huge, tree-lined yard. Shutters. Hardwood floors. The sounds of her
husband walking in his bare feet, not wanting to wake her up as he made his breakfast at 4:30 in the morning, the sounds of her three sons sleeping in their rooms, the smells of Sunday morning . . .
Home. No, she couldn’t take him home. She glanced toward the doctor. “We will take him, then,” she said.
Ammon moved toward the bed and took his brother’s hand. Luke’s eyes fluttered and he woke up.
“How you feeling, buddy?”
Luke seemed to test his body, slowly arching his back. “Pretty good,” he said.
“That’s good, man. That’s really good. You’re going to have to help me.” Ammon put his hand underneath his brother’s back. “We need to lift you up.”
Luke slowly raised up to an elbow. “What we doing?” he asked.
“Getting out of here.”
Luke looked wearily toward his mother. “We’re leaving the hospital, Mom?”
Sara moved to his side. “Yes, Luke, they don’t have room for us. But you’re going to be okay.”
Luke was confused and disoriented. “But where we going to go?”
“I don’t know,” Sara said.
Chapter Three
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
Lieutenant Samuel Brighton stood at the apartment window. It was growing light now, the sun just barely breaking over the horizon, illuminating the dirty high-rise buildings in a golden hue. It had been a long night. The sun was comforting to him now, and he almost opened his arms to embrace it as it came.
It was completely quiet, though he thought he could hear the women breathing behind the thin bedroom doors. The morning grew brighter and he stood there motionless, watching, listening, thinking, sometimes praying. He thought of the last two days: the parachute jump, the night run through the darkness, not knowing where he was going, only knowing he had to run. “Go!” the Spirit had told him. And so he had run. He thought of finding his family, his brother’s stomach bleeding, his mother in tears, Ammon in shock, almost unable to move, the black woman and her daughter in whose home he was now standing. He thought of the mud, the rain, and the peace. He thought of the blessing, the miracle, the unseen hands upon his own. He brought his palms together, still feeling the others’ heat. Was his father with him? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The experience was too sacred to talk or wonder about. He thought of the day and nighttime walk across the country, through the outskirts of the city, the improvised litter holding Luke. He thought of his mother, who had stayed with her youngest son back at the hospital, an old, chaotic, brick-and-mortar complex on the other side of the city. He thought of his best friend, Bono, another brother, wondering if he had found his family. Sam shuddered, thinking of him. Was he okay?
The morning passed in silence. He didn’t hear the girl’s footsteps and he startled when he realized how close she was behind him. Jerking, he turned to face her, his hand instinctively moving for the holster at his side. Seeing his reaction, she pulled back and lifted her hands, palms out, face bowed, a signal of subjection. He looked at her, took a breath, and forced himself to relax. “Hi, Azadeh,” he said.
“I frightened you. I am sorry.”
Sam blushed. He was embarrassed. No way that would ever have happened in the field. “No, no . . . it’s okay. I was just
thinking.”
She looked at him as if waiting. “Good morning . . .” she then stumbled, trying to think of the word . . . “officer,” she finally said.
Sam laughed. “Officer! Really! You don’t have to call me that.”
She glanced around, embarrassed. “Lieu . . . tant Brighton . . .”
“Sam. Just Sam, okay?”
She smiled at him again.
He watched her intently, and for a fleeting moment the world seemed almost right again. Balanced. On track. Everything okay. The feeling came and left him in an instant and he almost shook his head. Where had that come from?
“You found me again?” she said to him. It was a question, not a comment, and there was wonder in her eyes.
“I didn’t really find you,” Sam weakly explained. Still, he half smiled. It was an amazing circumstance, one that had befuddled him. “It does seem that fate has cast us here together.”
“You found me on the mountain. You saved me from the camp at Khorramshahr. No, more, you saved me from the man who came to take me. I know what he was doing.” She looked off, thinking of the slave traders, her eyes half open, her voice so low Sam had to strain to hear. “I was here, alone again, when you appear again.”
A shaft of sun finally broke over the tallest building, sending a thin beam of pale light through the small kitchen window. The two were silent for a moment. Looking at her, Sam couldn’t help but think about the first time that he had seen her on the burning hill above her village in Iran, a terrified and lonely girl, young—sixteen, maybe seventeen, it was hard to tell—in some ways almost childlike, in others, beyond her years. She was too scared to talk, watching from the edge of the ditch, reaching for her father, who had been brutally murdered for no more reason than that he had tried to protect a young prince. Sam remembered seeing her, catching the feeling in his soul. Combat had a way of humbling the hardest man, and he was susceptible to its influence because of the things that he’d been through. So he sensed it, almost hearing the words inside his mind: You know her. She is a sister. You were sent to help her.
It seemed so long ago now. Years. Another life. Another world. So little of it even seemed relevant to him anymore.
Watching Azadeh, he realized that she was older now, much older than she should have been, and no longer just a girl. She had always been beautiful, but there was something more about her, something wiser, softer, maybe more determined, certainly more aware. He watched her intently, almost happily. Just being there in the friendly stranger’s kitchen, a warm sun shining through, was enough to make him . . . he didn’t know . . . not happy, exactly. Maybe satisfied.
Azadeh looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting her deep thoughts. She had her own memories, powerful to the point of overwhelming, and for a moment she was also lost in the past. Together they stood in silence, the pale morning light beginning to fill the room. Sam shifted his weight, comfortable with the silence, but finally he shook his head. “Azadeh?”
She focused on him.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, unsure of what to say.
He continued looking at her. Her dark hair was held behind a white and silver scarf, but several strands had escaped the shiny material and were hanging at the side of her face. Reaching up, she brushed them back. She wore a thin robe, worn but beautiful Persian silk; long cotton pants, something like pajamas; and white fabric sandals. “Are you all right?” he repeated.
She nodded. “I am fine.”
“You miss your country?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you have any family?”
Her eyes half closed and she barely moved her head, the light scarf shimmering, another strand of dark hair escaping. Sam watched the ringlet bounce gently at the side of her ear.
“Do you have friends? People back in Iran you are keeping in contact with?”
“I have friends . . .” She thought again, a mental picture of Omar, her father’s only true ally, flashing into her mind. She envisioned the huge man whisking the young princeling into his enormous arms, turning and heading up the mountain trail, rain and smoke and fog around him. She hadn’t seen him since the day her father had been killed. Then she thought of her fellow villagers rummaging through the remains of her burned-out house, leaving nothing behind but broken pots and garbage. “I had friends,” she concluded, talking mostly to herself.
Sam could see she didn’t want to talk about it and diverted his eyes, looking around the tiny apartment. “Are you hungry?” He reached for his pack.
“I have food.” She nodded toward the fridge.
Sam hesitated. He knew how little food was there.
“You need some water?” His camel pack was almost empty now, but he would share what he had.
“No. I am fine.” She motioned to the half-full plastic container with the melted ice from the freezer.
Sam pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and played with it, flipping the cover open and closed absently. Azadeh eyed the black and silver case. “Why do you have that?” she asked.
Sam tossed it from one hand to the other. “A relic of the past.”
“Does it operate?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Kind of. I mean, the phone itself would still work. I was underground in a subway—do you know what that is?” She shook her head no. “An underground train.” She nodded quickly. “Being underground, my equipment was protected from the giant magnetic surge. That’s why I have a flashlight, a watch, this phone that still works. The problem is, none of the cell towers are operating . . .” His voice trailed off. He had lost her, he could see that from the look on her face. “No cell phone. Not right now. Sometime they’ll rebuild the towers. Then it will work again.”
She stared at him and nodded. He cleared his throat
awkwardly, then moved to the kitchen table and sat down. Azadeh hesitated, then followed. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
She thought for a moment before holding up almost all her fingers.
He counted. “Nine weeks?” That didn’t seem right.
She shook her head. “No. Sunsets . . . days.”
Nine days. “Not very long,” Sam said. He pressed his lips, almost smiling at the irony. She had barely made it to America before it had all come crashing down. Was that a good thing, being here after the EMP attack? He didn’t know. Truth was, there were lots of places he would rather be than in the United States right now. For the first time in modern history, this was the last place in the world anyone might want to be. “Your timing is ironic, isn’t it, Azadeh?”
She pulled the top of her robe. She probably had no idea what ironic meant, but still she seemed to sense his meaning. “I am glad I am here,” she said. “I have nothing here, that is true, but,” she nodded east, “I had less over there. It is bad in your country now, but it can be as bad over there. Or it will be. Soon. But all that does not matter.” She stopped talking as she thought. “I am a person here,” she concluded.
Sam stared at his hands, his fingers moving anxiously. “I have to go,” he said.
Azadeh looked suddenly terrified. “Going?”
“Yes. I have to check on my mom and brother. Then we’ve got to form a plan.”
“A plan?” Azadeh wondered.
“Yes. You know, decide what we’re going to do.”
She bit her lower lip. “What will you do?” Her eyes were wide now, fear showing through.
Sam reached across to touch her fingers. “Don’t worry about it, Azadeh. We’re going to work it out.”
She kept staring, finally whispering, “You will be going?”
Sam looked around, his eyes resting on the window. He knew the scene that lay outside. “I don’t think we can stay here.”
“You will take your brothers? Your mother? You will go?”
“Yes. Probably soon.”
She stared again, not saying anything, then looked around as if searching for something before bringing her eyes back to him. “
I cannot go out there. A Muslim woman. An Iranian. It is not safe.”
Sam nodded, understanding.
“Please.” She motioned toward the back bedroom with her hand. “Mary? Kelly Beth? Me? Please. Can we go with you? If not, I do not know what we will do.”
Sam hesitated, looking at her in surprise. “Azadeh, did you think that I was going to leave you?”
She only stared at him.
“We’re not going to leave you. We are together now, kind of like a family.”
She looked down, too frightened to believe him.
He leaned forward across the old table. “I promise you, Azadeh, we’re going to stay together. It’s going to be okay.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “I’ve got to go and find my family now,” he said.
Northwestern University Medical Center
Chicago, Illinois
The hospital was in utter chaos. There were no gurneys or wheelchairs available, so Sara and Ammon wrapped Luke in a blanket and propped him up, one of them under each arm. He stepped gingerly and winced a time or two, but Ammon was surprised at the strength with which he moved; his legs didn’t wobble and he seemed to hold his own weight. They walked slowly down the hallway toward the main entrance. Pushing the heavy door back, they found themselves in the covered horseshoe parkway jammed with half a dozen ambulances and other cars, all of them dead. Stepping into the light, Ammon felt grateful to be out of the hospital, which seemed like nothing but a black pit of despair.
He looked around, squinting at the sun. “Where do you think Sam is?” he asked his mom.
Sara looked up and down the crowded streets. There were many more people out now than there had been the night before. They gathered in the streets, on the corners, near the hospital door. They seemed more angry, and more desperate. A nervous knot grew in her stomach. She searched the crowd for Sam, hoping his tall shoulders would stand above the growing mass of people. “He said he’d come back after he got Mary and her little girl back to their apartment,” she said.
Luke nodded toward the nearest bench. Sara and Luke sat down. Luke immediately bent over, resting his head on Sara’s lap. Ammon paced, looking up and down the street. “We need Sam,” he mouthed to his mother so that Luke couldn’t hear.
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