I pick up my poncho lining and tie it to some strings Iave sewn onto the tent ceiling. This is the only wall Iave got between me and this creep. Iave been putting it up ever since he started whispering obscene suggestions to me on our second night here. Then I lie down, say my usual goodnight prayer, pull the sheet I brought from home over me and change into my PTs, the gym shirt and shorts I sleep in because theyare easier and cooler than PJs. But how the h.e.l.l Iam going to get through yet another fire and brimstone of a night I do not know. My head hurts. Stomach hurts. Bladder hurts. Itas stiflingly hot and Iam crazy with thirst again, but I canat drink more than one sip of water because if youare a female itas too f.u.c.king dangerous to go outside for a p.i.s.s.
Is Third Eye right? Is it my fault things are like this?
The minute I wake up the next morning, I s.n.a.t.c.h my water bottle and chug the whole d.a.m.n thing down. I spent half the night awake, moving the dust around in my mouth, and when I did finally drift off, I dreamed I was swimming in my local lake with my mouth open, drinking my way across. Only, every gulp I took turned to sand.
I shake Third Eye and Yvette awake too, so we can go for our usual run together before leaving for our separate shifts. This is our only chance to get away from all the douches we work with, and our only free moment to actually enjoy ourselves. I think itas the best moment of the day. It is mine, anyhow.
We creep out of the tent still wearing the PTs we slept in, and stretch a little before we get going. The airas cool from the night and the skyas glowing slate blue. The only other people around are a few guys running like us and the poor suckers on s.h.i.t-burning detail. Since weave got no sewage facilities, they have the delightful job of dragging the barrels out from under the latrines, dousing them with gas and diesel and setting them on fire, then stirring them with a long pole so they can send black clouds of toxic stink over the camp for all of us to breathe in our sleep.
We jog along the dirt road that runs down the middle of the camp, too sleepy to talk yet. I feel my legs stretching and my body turning loose and strong, like it always does when I run. Makes me miss my track days in high schoola"the days when I still felt sane.
aDid that spider keep Macktruck quiet last night?a Third Eye asks me after a while.
aNot really.a aYaknow, we should teach that m.o.f.o a lesson,a Yvette says. Yvetteas even shorter than me, but she has this husky, loud voice that makes you sit up and pay attention. aYou two got any dental floss?a aDental floss?a Third Eye says. aWhy?a aYouall see.a Yvette always comes up with the best schemes. Sheas a weird mix of street-tough and gentle. All her life sheas bounced from one foster home to another because her momas a junkie and her dadas out of the picture. A lot of people are like that in my unit, but Yvetteas the only one I know who doesnat hate the war. aIt got me outta the ghetto,a she likes to say. aG.o.d bless America.a If waras better than where she came from, you know it had to be bad.
I like her, though. Sheas a dark-skinned Puerto Rican, narrow as a broomstick, with this little old-before-her time face under super-short hair. She can curse the c.o.c.k off a roach, worse than most of the guys in our unit. But if you treat her right, sheas truly generous. More than Third Eye, who I wonder about sometimes.
The dawn breaks while weare running and for a moment the landscape is actually beautiful. Fiery orange streaking the sky. The dust in the air sparkling like powdered rubies. The sand glowing rose.
Sunrises and sunsets are something else out here in the desert. The rest of the time itas hideous.
I scan the sky a moment for birds, an old habit. Me and Tyler were into birds back at home, nerdy as that sounds. In the spring and summer wead sit on my parentas back deck, right at that moment at dusk when the swallows are tumbling through the sky catching their insect dinners, and look out for birds over the long valley that stretched up to the mountains behind us. We liked to compete over who could identify the most. Every evening, a great blue heron would flop over the fields, like a commuter on his way home from the office, minus the briefcase, but he was too easy for either of us to claim, with his long ragged wings and tail like an arrow. But I was best at catching first sight of the rose-breasted grosbeak in spring, and Tyler was always the first to spot the nervous little nuthatch trying to get at our feeder before the jays and catbirds chased it away.
So I was excited about the birds Iad see in Iraq. I looked them up in a bird book before I came. One is the Eurasian hoopoe, this crazy-looking thing with a woodp.e.c.k.e.ras back, a doveas head and a sandpiperas beak, topped off by a striped crest like a clown hat. And there are supposed to be larks and ibis, eagles and storksa"the kinds of birds you only see in zoos back home, never in the wild. I want so badly to see them! But so far I havenat seen a single one.
Where the h.e.l.l do birds go in war, anyway? Do they fly away someplace else? Do they hide? Do they catch fire and fall, black and smoking, to the ground? Or do they breathe in the bomb smoke and depleted uranium and burning bodies and oil and s.h.i.t, like we do, and crawl away somewhere to die?
aHERE, I BROUGHT something for you,a the long-haired man says once heas stopped crying. He slides a hand into his jacket pocket.
The soldier starts and shrinks back again on the hospital bed.
aNo, no, itas okay.a Slowly, he pulls out a little pink box, as shimmery as an Easter egg. He holds it out. aItas from April. She misses you real bad. She says to please get well and come home in time for her birthday. Eight years old, can you believe it? Sheas growing up so fast.a He puts the box on the bed.
The soldier picks it up carefully, cradling it in her underwater palms. April is good. April is safe.
aAre you going to open it?a The soldier looks down at the box.
aKatie?a The man leans forward again, his elbows on his knees. aLook at me, please?a She hesitates. But then she lifts her head and eyes him warily.
aYouare home now, remember? The waras gone. Youare not with those people anymore. Itas over now, youare safe.a The man does have the same soft face as Tyler, the same pleading, cinnamon eyes. Same flop of brown hair over his brow, too. But heas doing something Tyler never would have done.
Heas lying.
[ NAEMA ].
GRANNY MARYAM IS not well. The shock of the soldiers storming into her house and taking Papa and Zaki has affected her mind. She was already bent and shaky, her little head drooping, but at least she was sharp. Now she wanders from past to present and doesnat seem to understand that it was not Saddamas soldiers who seized her beloved grandson and son-in-law, but the Americans. All soldiers are the same to her, whatever their uniforms, whatever their justifications. All are murderers.
Mama and I try to lift her spirits by putting her to bed in the prettiest room in the house, the one she normally saves for guests, whichha.s.sweet-smellingrushmatson the floor and blueandred tapestries on its walls. We arrange her favorite cushions under the windows so their bright colors and gold threads can catch the sunbeams filtering through the shutters and send cheering sparkles over the room. And when the heat of the day has baked the house to an inferno, we carry her to the roof, where we can all sleep in the relative cool of the night.
But Granny notices none of these efforts. I take her temperature and blood pressure and feel her pulse, the way I was taught at Medical Collegea"thereas nothing wrong with her but old age and heartbreak. Yet she wonat eat anything but the thinnest of gruels. She refuses to get up except to visit the outhouse, leaning on Mamaas arm, or to sit at the table, bent over her soup bowl, clutching her unused spoon and sighing. She moans and frets and wrings her bony hands, her eyes clouded with hurt and confusion. And she calls again and again for Grandpa, even though heas been dead these twenty years.
I hate to see Granny like this, so changed from the lively and mischievous woman she once was. How Zaki and I loved to visit her when we were small! This little house and her animals; her soft, round body, smelling of the jasmine with which she perfumed her long hair; her secret smile, promising all sorts of forbidden treats once our parentsa backs were turned.
Every year on Eid al-Fitr, Papa would bundle us into the cara"its red paint bright and unscratched thena"and drive the nearly five hundred kilometers from Baghdad to here for the holiday. Laden with the cakes and breads Mama had baked and the clumsy gifts Zaki and I had made at schoola" lopsided clay bowls, usuallya"we would arrive tired and dusty but salivating in antic.i.p.ation of breaking the Ramadan fast. And Granny would always be waiting at her door, dressed in the black abaya she has worn since Grandpa was killed, her old face crinkling with joy at the sight of us.
Once we were inside, Zaki and I would wait by the window, counting the seconds until the sun dipped below the horizon. And the minute it did, Granny would bring out her special b.u.t.tery date b.a.l.l.s, spiced with cardamom and anise, which we would gobble until we felt sick. Then she would send us outside to play so the adults could talk among themselves while they prepared the nightas feast: perhaps masgoof, fish split down the belly and roasted with herbs; or maybe kibbe, my favorite, spicy lamb dumplings encased in cracked wheat.
Zaki and I spent hours playing outside in those days. We chased Grannyas chickens and collected their eggs. We learned to milk her goats and feed their bony kids, their fur so silky, their tiny bodies wriggling. And we climbed the neighborhood fruit trees to pluck what oranges and dates we could before getting caught, or ran over to play with the grandchildren of kind Abu Mustafa al-a.s.sawi and his wife, who lived next door.
But our favorite times were the warm nights when we slept on the roof with Granny, as Mama and I are doing now. Zaki and I would lie side by side, watching the stars dance above, and ask Granny question after question about her life. Her past was like a history book to us, for she had lived in the old ways, far from the modern life we knew, and she had progressed from misery to happiness just like the heroine of a folktale. She had been married at fourteen to a man old enough to be her father, and for years was terrorized by his blows and the pain and horror of the nights when he came to her bed. She became pregnant before she was fully grown and almost died giving birth to a stillborn baby. But then, after five years of this misery, she was released. Her husband died, poisoned perhaps by his own cruelty, and a year later she was married to my grandfather, a man also older than she but kind and loving. aI wish you had known him, my little pets,a she would tell us. aYour mama, how she adored him when she was small! On the days he did not have to work, she would make him sit all morning while she played barber, pretending to cut his hair and shave him, getting soapsuds all over his clothes, just to keep him close to her.a Granny would chuckle then and patiently answer more of our questions, or tell us village gossip about the fat tobacco seller and his bullying wife until she had lulled us to sleep. Granny had a salty tongue.
When we grew older, Zaki would tear off for a game of soccer with the village boys while I stayed behind in the kitchen to help Granny cook and listen to more of her stories. I delighted in these times alone with her, rolling those delicious date b.a.l.l.s in sesame seeds or sugar while she regaled me with the ancient tales of her village: naughty children eaten by demons, unfaithful husbands cuckolded by traveling merchants, genies rising out of earthenware pots to grant a wish.
I remember once Zaki was feeding a newborn goat just as Granny called us in to supper. He tucked the kid inside his shirt, where it fell asleep, lulled by his warmth, and came in. The kid slept unnoticed through most of the meal, but finally awoke and began to struggle and kick its tiny hooves. We all stared, but Granny did not turn a hair. She regarded the strange jumping and poking inside my brotheras shirt and said calmly, aZaki, it appears you have eaten too much.a All that is gone now. The goats slaughtered for their meat. The fruit trees shredded by American bombs. The boys Zaki played with imprisoned, exiled or killed. And Granny Maryam is too unhappy to joke or tell stories. Just as Mama and I are too unhappy to listen.
[ KATE ].
WHEN I GET back from my run with Yvette and Third Eye, Mackas still asleep. He always grabs every last second of shut-eye he can, usually sacrificing a wash to do ita"no doubt why he stinks so bada"but itas just what we want right now. Yvette winks at us, puts her finger to her lips and quietly fishes out some dental floss from her duffle bag, gesturing at us to get ours. Then, quick as a flash, she wraps the floss around Mackas legs, tying them down to his cot, while we do the same to his arms, stomach and chesta"he sleeps like the dead. The guys in the tent gather around silently, grinning. In no time at all, ola Macktruck is tied up tight as a pork roll.
The next thing Yvette does is pure genius. She points her rifle at an open flap in the tent, screams aAttack!a And fires.
Mackas eyes fly open in terror and he tries to jump up. But he canat, of course. The look on his face! He struggles for a few minutes in such a panic I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. The rest of us fall around, laughing.
Once the ruckus has died down and weave left the guys to untie Mack, which they donat do till heas seriously late for his shift, we females douse off our running sweat with bottled water, ignoring the shouts of aWet T-shirt time!a and take out our T-Rats. Morning is the only time I can really chow down, before the heat and my nerves get too bada"if you can call T-Rations chow. Tubes of green eggs that shake like a fat ladyas flab, mushes of unidentifiablea"well, mush. I shovel it all in anyway, needing the strength. Then weare off to our squads, and thatas the last Iall see of another female till tonighta"an American female, that is.
By the time my team arrives at the checkpoint, not only are the usual civilians already there, but I see that girl Naema right away, too. Iam heading over to say hi when Kormick barks, aBrady!a At least he didnat call me t.i.ts or Pinka.s.s.
I turn and trail back to him, the moondust puffing around my boots like talc.u.m powder, wondering what c.r.a.p heas going to load on me now.
aTake this. See if it calms the hajjis down.a He shoves a piece of paper at me, his jaw hard under the blank of his sungla.s.ses. aNow move.a I look at the paper heas given me: a hand-scrawled column of about fifty names. Thatas it, the promised list? f.u.c.k.
When I get up to the wire, Naema greets me with a cool look. Sheas standing in front of the crowd this time; I guess the people recognize her as their interpreter now. Her headas wrapped in a lavender headscarf that doesnat look as good on her as the blue one did. It turns her skin sallow and makes the circles under her eyes look like bruises. Or maybe sheas just too worried to sleep. I would be, if it was my dad and brother in here.
aSalaam aleik.u.m,a I say again, and try once more to shake her hand.
She avoids it as coldly as ever, but at least she returns my greeting this time. aAleik.u.m salaam.a Weare wishing each other peace, which, under the circ.u.mstances, is pretty ironic.
aTheyave given me a list of the prisoners today,a I tell her. aOr some of them.a Her face brightens up at that. aMay I see?a She holds out her hand. Iam not sure itas protocol to actually give her the paper, so I look over my shoulder to see whoas watching. DJas my battle buddy this morning and heas standing nearby, unlike zitface Rickman. I appreciate somebody doing his job for a change, but at the same time I wish head back off. He looks so fierce with his M-16 held at the ready, his face hidden under his Kevlar helmet and shades. He looks like the f.u.c.king Terminator.
aGive it to me!a Naema snaps, and before I know whatas what, sheas s.n.a.t.c.hed the list from my hand. aYes, Zaki is here!a she says, running her eyes over it. aThank G.o.d! But my father, where is his name? I cannot see it.a aItas only a partial list,a I answer quickly. aMoreas coming later.a The crowdas pressing around us again, making me jumpy as a rabbit. I hope that woman with the stinky baby doesnat show up again. aRead it out quick,a I say. aAnd tell them to back off.a Naema holds up the list till the people quiet down. Then she reads all the names on it aloud.
Right away some people cry out, while others hang their heads and sob. Iam surrounded by suffering faces so worn and sunbaked and sad that the sight of them makes something crack inside of me. A certainty, perhaps, a sureness that Iam doing the right thinga"I donat know. Whatever the h.e.l.l it is, I feel it break.
The people are cl.u.s.tering around Naema now, shouting out questions like sheas the authority here, not me, which I donat appreciate at all. aThey are asking what will happen to the men you have in here,a she calls to me over the din.
aWe have to process them,a I shout back.
She gives me a blank look.
aI mean theyave got to be questioned anda"Iam sure the ones who are innocent will be freed.a What bulls.h.i.t. I have no f.u.c.king idea what weare going to do with the thousands of prisoners weave taken in. I donat think anybody knows. But if they do, they sure as h.e.l.l arenat telling me.
aAnd the boys? What about the children you have locked up in here like animals?a aSame thing,a I reply.
Naema unhooks herself from the clutching hands and makes her way back to me. aKatea"you said that is your name, right?a aYes.a aKate, I was at Medical College before the war sent me here. I am not stupid. You must not lie to me. I ask you again: What are you going to do with our men?a aIam not lying! Iam just telling you what they told me! Iam a junior enlisted. You know what that means? It means they tell me nothing, I know nothing. Iave got no power to help you.a aYes, this is true. You are nothing,a she says calmly.
I know that should make me mad, but all I feel is tired. aLook, the only thing I can do is ask my higher-ups. They might not tell me anything, but I can try.a aAnd why should I believe you will do this?a aBecause I didnat make this war.a What the h.e.l.l made me say that? I look around quickly, but if DJ heard he doesnat let on. I could be court-martialed and thrown in the brig my whole G.o.dd.a.m.n life for saying something like that to an Iraqi.
Naema gazes at me with her strange green-gold eyes. aYou look very young to be a soldier,a she says then.
That surprises me. aWell, Iam nineteen. But a lot of us are young.a aBut why are you a soldier? Why, as a woman, did you choose such a path? Soldiers take life. Women give life.a I canat answer that. I donat even know what to think of it. aIn my country, a lot of people have to be soldiers to pay to go to college,a I say lamely. aWomen and men. And we want to serve our country, too, you know? Um, did you say youare in medical school?a aI am. In my fourth year.a aWow, I didnat know you could do that here.a Itas true. I thought Iraqi girls werenat allowed to do anything except get married.
Naema looks almost amused. The whole time weave been talking, sheas been standing tall and proud, her back straight, her gaze clear and hard. I feel like a hunchback next to her, dirty and sandy and loaded down with my sixty pounds of soldieras gear.
aDo you know nothing of my country?a she says then. aI come from Baghdad. My father is a professor of engineering and a poet, my mother is an ophthalmologista"or they were until your war took away their jobs. What do you think, that we are all goatherds?a aNo, I didnat mean that. Sorry.a I try on a grin, but it only makes me feel more of an idiot than ever. aMy motheras in medicine, too,a I add, groping for some way to make this conversation go better. aWell, sheas a medical secretary, anyhow. She works for an obstetrician. And my dadas a sheriff. You know, a policeman?a aI see.a What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?
aYou know what my brother, Zaki, wants to be?a Naema says then, her voice a little more gentle. aHe wants to be a singer, like your Bruce Springsteen. He plays his guitar day and night. It drives us all crazy.a Iraqis know about The Boss? I try to hide my astonishment. aMy fianc plays guitar too,a I say. And for a second there, we almost smile at each other.
aBrady, Sarant just radioed,a DJ calls out, startling me. aSays we gotta get these hajjis to leave.a I wish he wouldnat use that word in front of Naema. aHe says this is a security risk.a DJ raises his rifle in the air and waves it around, trying to shoo the locals away. I wish he wouldnat do that, either.
Most of the civilians duck and back off. But a few just stand there looking puzzled.
aDJ, quit that!a I say quickly. aYouare gonna cause a panic. This girl here speaks perfect English. She can tell them to go, okay?a DJ looks at Naema curiously, but she ignores him, keeping her eyes on me. aYou will have another list soon?a she asks.
aYeah, Iam sure we will. Tell these people they can come back tomorrow, but theyave got to leave now.a She hesitates, frowning, like she wants to ask more. But DJas glaring at her now with both hands on his rifle, so she steps away and says something to an old man in front of her. He repeats it to the people behind him, and soon a murmur ripples over the crowd. One by one, they turn and plod away across the desert, Naema with them.
aSee you tomorrow!a I call after her. She doesnat respond.
aDonat say ahajjia in front of them like that,a I say to DJ once sheas gone. aItas not respectful.a He raises his eyebrows. aAnd I suppose it was respectful when those motherf.u.c.kers blew up Jones and Harman last week? Jesus Christ, Brady, whose f.u.c.kina side are you on?a After Naema and the other civilians leave, things stay quiet for the next hour or so. Quiet enough, at least, to let me block out the sandpit and all the s.h.i.t in it and float back into my memories. Tyler. Camping. The mountains. s.e.x. Only one car drives up the whole time, the usual rattletrap, this one driven by a little old man with no pa.s.sengers. He speaks enough English to tell us that he owns a jewelry store in Basra and is trying to get to his family over the border in Kuwait. We search his car and find nothing but a bag of cheap silver rings, then send him on his way, although none of us thinks he has any more chance of getting over the border than we have of waking up in Oz.
After that, I stare out at spindly little Marvin, trying to trick myself into thinking that this eyeball-shriveling heat is nothing but a hot summeras day back at home. Itas hard to believe in this h.e.l.lhole, but I used to actually love the summers. Being alone in the fields behind our house. Flowers. Cows. Thoughts. Lying in the gra.s.s watching birds or reading a book.
The best summer of my life, though, was my first one with Tyler, the one after eleventh grade. He wasnat any more experienced than me at being a couple, so we were high on everything about it. Waking up in the morning and remembering there was no school, but that we didnat have to feel lonely anyway because we had each other. Lying under the warm stars, telling each other our secrets. Having a best friend you could kiss. Losing our virginity together in a field on a steamy July night full of fireflies and mosquitoes.
I remember one time we went down to Myosotis Lake to watch the sunset with a bottle of tequila, because that was the most romantic thing to do around Willowglen. We sat on top of a picnic table, drinking and watching the gulls fly over the lake. The sun was already low in the sky, the air still and windless, so the water lay flat and silent as a sheet of silver, reflecting the rose and salmon pinks of the sunset without even a ripple. Then we heard a splash and a strange munching sound. aLetas go look,a Tyler mouthed, and he put down the tequila bottle and slid off the table.
We crept toward the noise, which was coming from a bank of weeds by the water. And there, under a fallen willow, we saw a beaver chomping on a branch like a hungry old man gobbling his dinner. We watched a long time, trying not to make a sound because beaver are shy. But the critter was slurping so greedily it made me giggle. Then Tyler caught the giggles too and we both spluttered into laughter, scaring the beaver into the water with a loud slap of his taila"loud as my M-16. In an instant he was gone.
We watched the gla.s.sy surface above him break into ripples, spreading its watery sunset into wider and wider circles. aLetas go in with him,a Tyler whispered, and he turned and kissed me, peeling off my shorts, then my shirt and underwear, till I felt the warm, silky air of the summer night kissing me just like he was. He took off his clothes, too, and holding hands we stepped into the brilliant pink water and slid out after the beaver.
We swam quiet as we could for a while, just listening to the night sounds: peepers echoing in the woods, an owl hooting. The sky darkened, turning the water from pink to purple. The fat moon stretched its shadows across the banks. Without needing to speak, we swam up to each other and Tyler pulled me to him, skin warm and satiny. And then there was no difference between his flesh and mine, our bodies and the lake, our breath and the night.
aHey, Freckles.a I blink and look around. Itas DJ. aI been calling you for five minutes. You asleep on your feet or something?a aWhat is it?a aSarant wants to see you.a aWhy?a af.u.c.k if I know. He says to go over there now.a aYou coming?a I ask hopefully.
aNope. I gotta stay here.a aSure?a DJ nods. Heas seen the way Kormickas been picking on me latelya"he understands. aIam sorry, Freckles. Wish I could, but you know.a aYeah, okay. d.a.m.n.a Kormickas standing outside this time, his chest puffed out and his chin c.o.c.ked high. aBrady, new orders have come down,a he barks soon as I come up to him. aYou and Teach are rotating to guard dutya"youall be a.s.signed to a new team. Weare bringing in Third Eye to search the hajji b.i.t.c.hes instead.a aOh. All right.a I donat bother to ask why weare being switched like this because there never seems to be a reason for anything in the Army, although I suspect it might be acause they donat like me getting friendly with Naema. But this is good news for me. It means I still get to work with Jimmy Donnell, the only truly nice guy in my squad, and it gets me away from two d.i.c.kwits at once, Kormick and b.o.n.e.r.
aSo this is your final day with us, Brady,a Kormick goes on. aIam sure youare heartbroken. Come in here, I got more instructions.a Something in his tone doesnat sound right. A shiver runs through me.
aI need to get back,a I say quickly and take a step away from him. aDJas alone out there. Canat leave my battle buddy by himself, right, Sarant?a I try on a grin.
But Kormick isnat having any of it. aDidnat you hear me, soldier? I said come with me.a His jawas jutting out and his teeth are clenched, but I canat see his eyes because theyare hidden behind mirrored sungla.s.ses. Sand glitters in the blond stubble on his perfect chin. Heas always on edge, but Iave never seen him on edge as this.
I look around to see who else is nearby. b.o.n.e.ras standing guard by the shack door, as usual, staring into s.p.a.ce, flies buzzing around his numbskull head. The rest of my squad are out by the checkpoint.
aIam real sorry, Sergeant, but I promised DJ Iad be right back,a I say then, my nerves tightening. aIall check in with you later.a I turn to get out of there but Kormick grabs my arm and yanks me around to face him.
aWhere the f.u.c.k do you think youare going? Didnat anybody tell you back in soldier school that you gotta do what your sergeant says, Pinka.s.s? Huh?a And still holding my arm, he drags me toward the shack.
Now Iam really scared. Again, I look over my shoulder for help, but Jimmy and Rickman are still facing away from me and DJas searching a truck out on the road. None of them can see me. None of them can hear me, either.
Kormick pulls me up to the shack, making me stumble. ab.o.n.e.r!a he barks.
b.o.n.e.r snaps out of his trance with a start. When he sees Kormick gripping my arm with that weird clench to his jaw, he looks scared, too.
aWant a little fun?a Kormick says to him.
aWhat?a ab.o.n.e.r!a Kormickas even angrier now. aCome on, you know what I mean. Do it!a aUh, okay, Sarant. If you say so.a b.o.n.e.r steps up to me, looking embarra.s.sed, but he reaches out anyway, aiming right at my b.o.o.b. But just before he touches me, I hear this roaring sound in my head and the next thing I know Iave wrenched my arm out of Kormickas grip and Iam pointing my rifle right at his crotch. aTouch me and Iall shoot your f.u.c.king b.a.l.l.s off!a I shout.
Kormick looks mildly surprised, then throws his head back with a laugh. b.o.n.e.r just stands there, his jaw dangling.
aWhoa, the b.i.t.c.h really canat take a joke,a Kormick splutters, still laughing. It isnat real laughter, though. aPut that f.u.c.king thing down or Iall slap you with an Article 91,a he says to me more seriously, although heas still pretending to chuckle. aInsubordinate conduct toward an NCO. Not to mention threatening me with a weapon, tut-tut. That can get you in serious trouble, t.i.ts, didnat you know that?a I back up, rifle still pointing at his crotch, my eyes locked on his.
For a second, everythingas still. Then something comes flying at me from the side and slams into my right breast so hard it knocks away my breath. I double over, dropping my rifle and gasping, the pain tearing into my chest. I feel myself being picked up, flung into the shack and thrown facedown on the table. I kick out hard as I can, struggle and struggle, but huge hands are gripping my neck, pressing into my trachea, the fingers squeezing so deep I canat move, canat breathe. All I can do is taste my own spit and blood.
And then Iam not me anymore. Iam a wing. One ragged blue wing, zigzagging torn and crooked across the long, black sky.
aTHERE, BABY, LET me just plump your pillow for you. Isnat that easier on your poor back, huh? Now take your pills and go to sleep. Itas time for this overworked nurse to get her b.u.t.t home.a The nurse hands the soldier her nightly paper cup full of pills.
The soldier pulls herself upright and peers into it, picking them out one by one. An orange one to numb her messed-up back. A yellow one so she doesnat get sad. A pink one so she can fall asleep and have fun dreaming about screaming and blood. Two blue ones so she doesnat know whatas hurting so much inside of her that she can hardly get from one breath to the next. And a white onea"she thinks thatas to stop her p.i.s.sing the bed.
She swallows them all.
The room is dark now; it must be late. The nurse changes the TV channel from its usual giant, ticking clock face to some sitcom, but the minute sheas gone the soldier gropes for the remote to turn it off. She keeps telling the nurse she canat handle TV, the fast-moving lights, the noise. The news. She keeps telling her. The nurse, who is kind but on automatic pilot, keeps forgetting.
The soldier lies back down in the quiet darkness, waiting for the pills to take her away again. She doesnat like it when her body empties of them and her mind begins to clear because thatas when the memories come. Shead take pills all day to avoid that.
In her hand she holds Aprilas little pink box, still shimmering like an Easter egg, but sheas afraid to open it. Sheas afraid the innocence inside will fly out forever.
[ KATE ].
IaM AlONE IN the shack when I come to. Crouched on the floor in a corner, knees to my chest, back up against the wall.
There seems to be somebody elseas rifle in my hands. It seems to be pointing at the door.
I have no idea why Iam alone like this, or who pulled Kormick off of me just in time. All I know is the next son of a b.i.t.c.h who puts his head around that door is getting it blown to pieces.
The wind is moaning through cracks in the plank walls, pushing the moondust in a wave along the ground. But when it dies down a moment I hear angry male voices outside shouting, and it sets me to shaking so hard I need to rest the rifle on my knees. Then the wind rises again, drowning out all but its lonesome whistle. But the shaking wonat stop.
A knock.