Sand Queen Part 7

aWhatas his name?a I say, my voice wobbling.

aHow the f.u.c.k should I know?a aAsk him. I need to knowa donat hurt him.a Flackman looks at me like Iave flipped, but he shoves the man with his foot. aHey, you! The lady wants to know your f.u.c.king name.a The man moans.

Forcing myself to move at last, I push Flackman aside and crouch next to the prisoneras head. It isnat the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. at all, I know that now. aIs your name Halim al-Jubur?a I ask shakily. But I know the answer. I know it just as well as I know his name and face from Naemaas photograph.

Very slightly, he nods.

Frantically, I start clearing the sand from Mr. al-Juburas mouth, his eyes, his b.l.o.o.d.y cheeks with my bare fingers. I think Iam saying something to him, too, something about Naema, but I donat know. I brush off his blood-caked hair, his shoulders, and lay his head gently back down on the sand, sideways so he can breathe. Then I try to undo the handcuffs around his flayed wrists. He lies there, eyes closed, his cheek pressed to the ground, breath shuddering. His face is gray.

aWhat the f.u.c.k are you doing?a Flackman says.

aHeas the wrong man,a I gasp, wrestling with the cuffs. aI thought he was someone else. Heas innocent! We have to get him a medic, get him help.a Flackman grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. aAre you nuts?a aNo!a I wrench out of his grasp and try to help Naemaas dad up, so that at least heas sitting and not lying at our feet like a kicked dog. But Flackman stops me.

aJesus f.u.c.king Christ, thatas the last time Iam letting some b.i.t.c.h in here. Who do you think you are, Mary Poppins? Hawkins, get her out of my sight.a One of the other MPs grips my arm and drags me back across the sand. aNo!a I yell. aYouave got to listen! I know who this man is! I know his daughter! You mustnat hurt him! Heas got heart problems. Listen to me!a But n.o.bodyas interested in listening to me. They just curse and march me out the entrance. aHey Teach!a one of them calls to Jimmy, whoas standing at his post with no idea whatas happening. aGet the b.i.t.c.h out of here. Sheas a f.u.c.king lunatic.a And he runs back inside.

Jimmy looks completely bewildered. aWhatas going on?a I stand in front him, trembling.

aKate, what is it?a aOh Jimmy,a I manage to whisper at last, looking up into his face. aWhat have I done?a [ KATE ].

MAMAaS SPIRITS HAVE grown much lighter since we received the message from Zaki. Today, she even goes down to the village to see what she can swap for the eggs from Granny Maryamas sickly old hens, the first time in weeks she has ventured out anywhere but Abu Mustafaas house, plagued as she is by fear and suspicion. It is such a relief to see some of her old courage return at last.

While she is gone, I look in on Granny, who sleeps nearly all the time now, then take from Mamaas drawer the packet of Papaas letters. I feel ashamed, as if I am spying, and am apprehensive about the sorrow and pain they will reveal, but Mama wants me to read them so badly that I try to overcome my reluctance and comply. I sit at the table, covered at the moment in an old and yellowing embroidered cloth, draw out a letter at random and, with trepidation, unfold it.

Last night in my uneasy sleep, dearest Zaynab, I dreamt of Naema and Zaki when they were babies, a sweet dream that allowed me to awake with a smile on my lips. My dreams, like my memories, protect me from this hideous place.

Zaynab, do you remember what Naema said when you first brought Zaki home from the hospital? She was eight years old and so proud of being a big sister, remember? That is until she saw his little red face and squirming body, his tiny hands squeezed into fists. She took one look into the bundle in your arms and blurted, aBut itas so ugly!a I think she expected a baby like a plastic doll, pink with batting blue eyes and red lips. But instead of being angry, you laughed. aHe will not be ugly long, little one,a you said. aThe more love you show him, the faster his beauty will come.a You are such a wise mother, Zaynab. Allah has been great in giving you to me.

I have no doubt that Naema is doing what she can for you and Zaki now. She has a spirit I admire, our daughter, fierce and loyal and, at sixteen, wise beyond her years. I only hope she remembers to also look after herself. Please kiss her for me, and little Zaki, too. Oh, Zaynab, my heart aches for them so!

I put the letter down and close my eyes. I am so afraid for Papa. Wasnat it enough that he had to endure such misery under Saddam? Why has it been his destiny to suffer like this yet again? But after a moment I pull out another of his letters, for his words draw me too strongly to resist.

It is hard, my dearest, to keep up oneas spirits here. I trya"for you, for the children, for my own survival. But I am plagued by my helplessness. I am a father, yes, but at times even that thought is bitter to me, for what sort of a father can I be locked up in here? I cannot teach my chil dren, I cannot protect them. I cannot be a husband to you.

I cannot even bring you a loaf of bread or an embrace.

These brutes have made me weak, Zaynab, and I was never a man who imagined being weak.

All I have to offer you are my poems, these invisible letters and my love. All are abstract, all are silent. And yet they keep me alive, for you.

Enough. I cannot bear this. Hurriedly, I return the letters to Mamaas drawer. I know Papa must be feeling that same despair now, only worse, for this time his son is imprisoned with him, so close and yet out of reach. To know your child might be suffering and to be unable to do anything about ita"that must be the worst punishment of all.

It is the business of war to be unjust and cruel, I realize this. To imprison and kill the innocent. To crush hearts and families, cities and lives. And yet we humans seem no more able to stop waging war than we are able to stop breathing. Why?

Mama returns not long after I have put away the letters to find me preparing tea for Granny. aLook!a she exclaims as she comes through the door, her basket heavy, and she pulls aside its cloth to reveal astonishing bounty: three fresh cuc.u.mbers and a large pot of goat yogurt, even some onions and cheesea"much more than I have ever found in my forays for food. She also brings back a jerrican of kerosene, with which we have to cook and light our homes now that the electricity trickster is being so ungenerous. Kerosene is foul-smelling and dangerous. Families are dying because it so easily explodes. But it has become our lifeline.

aMama, where did you find all this?a She shakes her head, smiling. aI put my trust in Allah, my love.a I know, however, that what has really given Mama this new courage is her effort to believe that Papa and Zaki will return any day. Even as she cooks, she pretends she is cooking for them. I can tell, for this is the only time she seems happy. Sometimes she even hums as she busies herself at the stove, her graying hair knotted in a bun at her neck, her thin body wrapped in one of her makeshift ap.r.o.ns. She hums because, for a few precious moments, she has forgotten that her husband and son are not in the next room, waiting for supper.

Yesterday, when we were pummeled by yet another dust storm, she betrayed this dream again. Silt covered every inch of the housea"the furniture and window ledges, the floors, even under the carpets and all over the wallsa"as if the desert had picked itself up and moved inside. Mama made me wipe and scrub with her all day long, until every speck of sand and dust was gone, even though these storms come all the time in this summer season. For whom could this effort be, except Zaki and Papa? Granny Maryam has sunk back into her illness and lies all day in her room, her dim eyes darting about in fear, her breath wheezing and labored. Mama and I spend our days scrounging for food and water and fuel. We are long past caring about dust. No, this frantic cleaning is Mamaas way of showing her hope is not defeated.

I, too, am holding onto hope, tenuous as it may be, trudging to the prison every morning with my three remaining companions. The McDougall soldier whose name made me laugh is still there, but she no longer bothers to talk to us. She only stands with her rifle raised, her red face obscured by her helmet and sungla.s.ses, staring at us without really seeing us, until we grow tired of trying to get her attention and go home. The only change in this routine is when she has a new list of prisoners for me to read out, or that one time she read me the message from Zaki.

I have begun to wonder about that message, though. At first I was too happy to question it, but now a worm of doubt is eating at my heart. I would never point this out to Mama, but Zaki does not speak enough English to tell the Americans that he has two friends from Basra, let alone that he misses his guitar. And why would the soldiers bother to find an interpreter for an insignificant little boy? Then there is the fact that I myself told the soldier girl Kate that Zaki plays guitar. Could she have written this message herself to trick me into continuing to interpret, or as some sort of perverse joke? These Americans seem capable of anything. And if she is cruel enough to have fabricated the message, how, then, G.o.d help me, can I have faith that Zaki is even alive?

I lie awake for many hours at night, fretting over these questions, but it does me no good, for the only person who can answer them is Kate. And I never see her anymore.

The morning after Mamaas success at the market, while the widow Fatima, Zahra and I are walking through the village on our usual way to the prison, we are startled to see men in the street for the first time, even though it is not yet dawn. Usually the streets are empty at this early hour, except for the odd wandering goat or hen. The men stare at us as we walk by. They are followers of Muqtada al-Sadr. I know this because they wear black and wrap scarves around their faces to disguise their ident.i.ties. I consider them cowards and brutes but nonetheless hesitate at the sight of them, for they are frightening like this, dark and faceless, just as they mean to be.

aKeep walking and donat look at them,a Fatima whispers. aAnd stay close to me.a I keep my eyes to the ground and hurry beside her, for I am the youngest by far of we three women and thus the clearest target of the menas reprobation. But it is hard not to stare into their eyes and challenge them. I long to say, aWhy must you be so destructive? I, too, want the Americans to leave, but not at the expense of even more hatred and murder among our own people, and not at the hands of fanatics like you.a aYou walk like a wh.o.r.e alone in the streets!a one hisses at me as I pa.s.s. aYou offend Allah and you will be punished.a And he spits at my feet.

I hurry on, shocked and afraid, but Fatima stops and glares at him. aShe is not alone!a she cries in her ancient, crackling voice, shaking her fist at him. aSheas with me, her own grandmother! How dare you call my grandchild such names! Have you no respect for your elders?a The man scowls and turns away.

I am grateful for the lie and ashamed of Mamaas and my suspicions of this kind old widow. But for how long I can depend upon her fragile protection, I dare not guess.

By the time we arrive at the prison some forty minutes later, still shaken by this encounter, we find the usual thirty or so determined but exhausted citizens already there, cl.u.s.tered together in the dust and heat. The McDougall soldier is there, as well, but this time accompanied by a man I have never seen before, a uniformed man, tall and dark. She escorts him up to us and stands beside him, glaring at us and holding her rifle across her chest, her legs straddled wide, as if the desert rocks beneath her like a ship. The man steps forward.

aGood morning and Allah be with you,a he says, and a murmur of surprise runs through the crowd because he is speaking Arabic. aForgive me for my imperfect Arabic, but I hope you can understand me.a Another murmur moves through us, one of a.s.sent. His accent is American and his dialect not Iraqi, but his words are clear.

aI am here to explain the condolence payments the U.S. government is offering citizens who have lost a family member through accident.a Before we can decipher quite what he is talking about, he goes on to say the Americans will give twenty-five hundred dollars to any family whose father or mother or child they have ainadvertently killedaa"as long as the victim was innocent, that is. aThis is your diaah,a he says. aReparation for accidental death.a Why is he telling us this? He must have bad news.

After he has finished talking in this insulting way about money, his voice drops and he begins to fumble with a piece of paper.

aSpeak up!a somebody shouts at him. aWe canat hear you!a The interpreter clears his throat. aI have to inform you of an unfortunate incident in the prison that occurred yesterday,a he begins.

Ice fills my veins.

aAs you know, we treat the prisoners well here. We bring in special food to meet their dietary requirements. We have built for them all the amenitiesa"a aShut up and tell us what you came to say!a an old man beside me calls out. aAre you so cruel you want to burn us on coals?a The interpreter looks startled and the McDougall girl steps forward, her rifle swinging in our direction. Her mouth is clenched in pure hatred.

The interpreter waves her back. aTo continue. Yesterday, at twenty-three hundred hours, the detainees in compounds three and four rioted and attacked our soldiers unprovoked. Stones and illegal homemade knives were thrown, wounding several of our guards, and the detainees then began attacking one another. In an attempt to rescue the victims, our soldiers entered the compound and subdued the a.s.sailants, but were again attacked. In the conflict, ten detainees were wounded, six later deceased. I will read the names of those we have identified so far.a A great moan rises from the crowd.

The man continues, his tone expressionless. aWhen I read the names, if any members of the family are present, will they please step up so we can arrange to return the bodies for proper burial.a He fumbles with the paper again, while the air around us grows as still as a tomb.

aFalah Hasun.a Silence. n.o.body comes forward. n.o.body knows him. My hand creeps to my throat.

aSaadi al-Ramli.a aNo!a cries the old man beside me, the same one who berated the interpreter. He totters and falls on me. aMy son!a And he breaks into such sobs I fear they will tear open his chest. I and two others hold him up, but I cannot look at him. I am looking with fire in my eyes at the interpreter, waiting to hear him read the third namea"fire, and the piercing cold of dread.

[ KATE ].

aWHYaS IT lIKE this?a I ask Jimmy one day in my tower. aWhyas everything so f.u.c.ked up?a aWhich particular everything do you mean?a Weare sitting elbow to elbow on my platform floor and heas chewing a toothpick, his long legs pulled up to his chest and his beautiful eyes hidden behind the usual shades.

aYou know. Watching the useless hajjis all day like this. Living with pervs like Kormick and Macktruck. At Fort Dix, they told me wead be building schools and good s.h.i.t like that. Not sitting here like cats in a litter box.a aYeah, they told me that too. But the Army doesnat give a f.u.c.k about what they say to us, you know that. Far as theyare concerned, weare just robots. GI stands for Government Issue, right? Says it all.a A prisoner shuffles by the wire just then, head dangling. I scan him and the other prisoners in the corral to see if I can spot Naemaas dad. I havenat seen him since I ground his face into the sand. Havenat told Jimmy what I did to him, either. He still thinks Mr. al-Jubur was the jerk-off, and that I was just feeling bad that day for roughing him up.

We sit in silence a while. Both of us know that sometimes weare too sick and tired of this h.e.l.lhole even to speak. The most we can manage is to stare into s.p.a.ce and blink. A couple of MPs come into the corral right then to usher the prisoners inside for chow, so once theyare gone thereas nothing to look at anyway.

An actual cloud shows up a few minutes later, wandering alone across the sky like a lost goose, so I watch it change the color of the ground as it moves. The desert often shift colors like this. Under the clouds, when there are any, itas dark tan, like a camel. During a sandstorm itas gray, unless itas raining at the same time, when it turns muddy brown. At dawn and dusk itas slate blue to near-black. And under the high sun of the day, which is most of the time, itas blinding white.

aYouare right, it is f.u.c.ked up,a Jimmy says suddenly, like we never stopped talking. aI wish we were doing something out here we could feel good about. Rebuilding towns or something, yaknow?a aYeah.a I wince, seeing Mr. al-Juburas blood-covered face again. aThe only worthwhile thing Iave done since I got here was getting that message to Naema. It was cool of Ortiz to find an interpreter. I didnat think he wanted to help.a aYeah, I knew head come through. Ortiz is good people.a Jimmy turns to look at me. aThereas another thing I wish, too,a he says then.

Something flutters in my chest when he says that. Something soft and warm. He edges a little closer.

aWhat?a I say shyly.

aI wish I could spend the whole day with you here, every day.a aYou do?a aUh-huh. Iad rather be with you more than anybody else in this whole d.a.m.n desert.a The fluttering in my chest grows so loud Iam afraid heall hear it. aSame with me and you,a I whisper.

Jimmy leans toward me and takes off his shades. And then he does something I never expected. He looks around to make sure no other soldiers are in sighta"there arenat, of course. Then he reaches over, lifts off my shades as well and wraps his arms around me, right there on top of the tower. And he holds me for a long time.

I rest my head against his chest, breathing his smell of sweat and tobacco and dust, the sweetest smell I could ever wish for. And for a wonderful few seconds, the hate and disgust that sit stinking inside of me all the time dissolve into nothing.

aThereas one more thing I wish too,a Jimmy whispers then, pulling back a little so he can look into my face.

aJimmy, Iaa aNo, wait. Listen. I wish I could kiss you. I wonat if you donat want me to. I know youave been through a lot, so Iall understand. Honest. Buta do you want me to?a I nod. Because I do. More than anything in the world.

He pulls me close again, and, very slowly, touches his lips to mine. He feels so tender and welcoming, he feels so kind. I wrap my arms tight around him, and a huge surge of wanting him washes through me. We kiss deeper then, and for the first time in months, Iam thinking maybe Iam not such a terrible person after all.

But just as Iam getting all swoony, closing my eyes to let go, I feel my foot stamping down on Mr. al-Juburas head, see the blood and sand clogging his mouth, feel myself enjoying every second of the manas pain, and I jerk back with a shock, like somebody hit me.

aWhatas the matter?a Jimmy says, startled.

I push him away, shaking my head. aI canat do this. I just canat.a aWhy? Iam not going to hurt you, Kate. You know that, donat you?a aNo, itas not that.a I look at him helplessly. aItad be okay if we were somewhere else, you know? In a different situation? Buta I just canat handle it.a Jimmy searches my face. aYou sure? Maybe if we give it more time?a He keeps looking at me, his eyes pleading. It hurts so much.

aYes,a I make myself say. aIam sure.a His face closes down. aOkay. I understand. Forget it then.a He stands up and walks to the ladder.

I want to say more, so much more. I want to tell him that itas not his fault, that heas the only person in the world I trust nowa"and that I want him real bad. But nothing comes.

aOh,a he says, pausing halfway down the ladder. aIam playing poker with Ortiz and some guys tonight. Want me to ask if thereas any news of your kid?a aYeah. Please.a I can barely get the words out.

Then heas gone.

When Creeley drives us back from our shifts that evening, I take my usual place in the rear with Mosquito and shut my eyes, pretending to doze. But Iam alert to Jimmyas every move. Usually, he turns around to talk to me, or manages a friendly signal of some kind, a wink or a touch, something to set us apart, to tell me he cares. But when Creeley drops me off this time, Jimmy doesnat even look at me or say goodnight.

I stand there like an idiot anyway, watching the Humvee drive away, then turn and drag myself into the tent, almost b.u.mping into DJ, whoas right inside the entrance, beaming like heas Santa Claus. aMailas come!a he announces soon as he sees me, and sweeps his arm grandly at the boxes and letters piled around him. aTwo for you, lucky Freckles.a He hands me a box and an envelope. DJas taken to being super kind to me ever since he beat b.o.n.e.ras a.s.s for punching me in the b.o.o.b.

aThanks,a I mumble, and take them over to my cot. Letters and care packages are a real treat around here, something all of us pathetic sand fleas normally get hyperexcited about. But I donat even feel like opening mine. Donat feel like doing anything except sitting here, numb.

Eventually, I make myself cut the box open. Itas full of stuff I asked my parents to send months ago. Gum, sunscreen, ChapStick, bug repellent, deodorant, skin lotiona along with a couple of printed prayers I didnat ask for from Mom. A drawing by April is in the box too, red marker on a big piece of pink paper: a little stick girl holding the hand of a big stick girl, the two of them standing inside a heart. I shove it and Momas prayers to the bottom of my duffle bag, along with all the other letters from home. I canat handle that stuff right now. Itad be easier if they stopped writing to me altogether.

The envelope is from Tyler. I take a deep breath and open it.

Hi Katie-love, Boy, do I have news for you! The MOST amazing thing happened. Itas the best thing thatas happened to me my whole life! Besides you, of course.

I was playing Moondoga"you know, that bar in Albany? And it was packed! Maybe 150 people squeezed in just to hear yours truly. And at the end of my set, this guy comes up to me and says he runs this indie label called Lizard and he wants to sign me! And he wasnat just talking, either, becausea I stop reading, fold up the letter and stuff it into my duffle bag too. Good for you, Tyler. But right now, right here, I donat give a s.h.i.t.

After that, I lie on my rack, pick up Pride and Prejudice again and try to read what I can before it gets too dark. Macktruckas back from his shift too, unfortunately, lying on my left, reading a p.o.r.n magazine and picking his nose. Yvetteas still away on her convoy. But Third Eyeas here on my right, stretched out on her cot with her usual dead-woman stare. I can sense her lying beside me, still as a log, and it bothers me so much I canat concentrate. So I put down my book and look at her.

aHey,a I say quietly. aYou okay?a She doesnat answer, but I expected that. Shrugging, I go back to snooty old Darcy. A couple minutes later, though, she surprises me and actually speaks.

aYour hajji girlfriend freaked out today. Went berserk, screaming at us that weare murderers and s.h.i.t. We almost arrested her.a I sit up. aWhat do you mean? Why?a af.u.c.k if I know.a Third Eye puts her arms behind her head and stares at the tent ceiling. aAll I can tell you is that this interpreter showed up this morning and told the locals about those prisoners who got themselves shot. Your girlfriend and the rest of them went nuts. If you ask me, we shouldnat be telling them any of that s.h.i.t. It only makes our f.u.c.kina jobs harder.a aBut it wasnat her dad or brother who got shot, was it? He didnat read out the names Zaki Ja.s.sim or Halim al-Jubur, did he?a My voice is wavering. I canat help it.

aJesus, Brady. Calm the f.u.c.k down. No, I didnat hear either of those names. Sheas just a loudmouth. Trying to be some kind of hero or something. And sheas been even worse since I pa.s.sed her that message. Annoying b.i.t.c.h.a aWay too many of those around here,a Mack comments without looking up from his p.o.r.n.

aDid she say anything else?a aNope. We chased her away. Now shut up and let me get some frickina sleep.a And without another word, Third Eye puts a pillow over her head.

aHey, t.i.ts, take a look at this,a Mack says then. He leans over and sticks his magazine under my nose, forcing me to see a woman with her legs spread and her finger in her a.s.s. aYou ever try that?a I shove the magazine away in disgust and turn my back on him. Then I dig out a notepad and pen from my duffle bag and sit on the edge of my cot to write.

Dear Tyler, Iam so glad to hear about your success. Itas what youave always deserved. Itas nice that youare making people happy. Wish that was true of me.

I know this is going to hurt, and Iam sorry because youave been so great to me. But I think we should call it quits. So please donat write anymore.

Kate at.i.ts?a Mack says again. Ignoring him, I read over my letter, a weight collecting in my chest.

aHey, Iam talking to you!a Mack shakes my cot. aTurn around and listen to me for once!a I fold the letter carefully, slide it inside an envelope, seal it, and then write the address slow and clear.

Mack reaches over and grabs my arm. aHey!a aGet off!a I jab my elbow backward into something soft and crunchy.

aOw!a aLeave her alone, Macktruck,a Third Eye says dully from under her pillow. aWe all gotta live together in this toilet. No need to make it worse.a aI didnat join the Army to live with a bunch of crazy wh.o.r.es!a he sputters, clutching his nose. And he buries his head back in his p.o.r.n.

The next morning I wake up at the usual time and go outside to wait for Jimmy to join me for our run. I donat know whether heall show up or even speak to me again, but what else can I do but hope? I canat make it out here without him, canat get through the days and hours and minutes that stretch ahead of me like a prison sentence. Heas the only reason I can get out of bed anymore and face what I have to face.

I donat need to wait long. He does show up, and only a couple minutes after Iave stepped out of the tent. Iam so relieved Iam tempted to fly into his arms after alla"make it easy on myself and pretend I really am the person he thinks and let him love me. But I donat deserve that. And I donat think I ever will.

aHi.a He smiles warily. I try to smile back but my mouth goes limp. I canat find anything to say. So we do our stretches without talking and take off down the sand road.

We run for a long time stuck in silence. And it isnat the comfortable silence we used to have, the no-pressure, companionable kind. Itas a thick silence, full of words that canat be said, full of hurt and longing and shame. A silence that makes me feel suffocated.

At last, though, Jimmy does speak up. aLooks like f.u.c.kina Jupiter out here.a His voice is flat, neutral. I look around, and itas like Iave never seen the desert before. Heas right. Everythingas dark gray this morning: the sand, the sky, the tents, our clothes. The twilight, or maybe our moods, has sucked all the color out of the world.

aArenat you sick of this place?a he says then.

aOh yeah.a But again I canat think of another word.

aYou know the first thing Iam gonna do when I get home?a he goes on, panting slightly from running in this heat. aIam going to grab my little bros, find a field and lie down in the thick green gra.s.s and just breathe. Then Iam gonna get us some brick-oven pizza and drink me a whole pitcher of beer.a When I donat answer, he adds, aYou still miss tree roots?a Heas trying so hard. Oh Jimmy. aYeah,a I say quietly. aYeah, I do.a We fall back into the silence after that. Run all the way to the berm and back again, like rats in a maze, without speaking once. I just canat talk. All I can think about is how the ease and trust between us has suddenly gone; how if Jimmy knew what kind of person I really am, head hate me. And those thoughts hurt so bad they stop up my words like a plug.

When weare nearly back at my tent, I remember one thing I do have to say, though. So I force it out. aDid Ortiz have any news for me last night?a Jimmy shrugs. aTell you later.a And without even looking at me, he runs off to his tent.

But he doesnat tell me later. He doesnat say anything to me in the Humvee, and he doesnat show up for his regular afternoon visit, either. For all fourteen hours of my shift, I sit trapped in my tower alone, hoping and hoping heall come. But he never does. And at the end of the day, when he and Creeley pick me up in the Humvee, he spends the whole ride kidding around with the guys and acting like Iam not even there.

THE HOSPITAl PHONE is ringing and ringing, but all the soldier does is watch it suspiciously. Sheas standing pressed against the far wall, doing the careful leg lifts the rehab doctor insists will strengthen her back. That phone brings a lot of unwelcome s.h.i.t these days. Parents. Tyler. Clueless civilian friends. Please donat be any of them, she prays. Please be Jimmy instead so I can get out of here. But she knows it wonat be.

It rings five times before she can finally force herself to cross the room and pick it up. aWhat?a she snaps.

aKatie, is that you?a Itas April! The sound of her sisteras breathy little voice makes the soldieras throat swell. She has to swallow hard and sit down on the bed before she can speak. aHi there, sweet bug, how are you?a aI fell off my bike,a April says.

aOh no! Are you hurt?a aI got a big yellow bruise on my knee and I sc.r.a.ped up my elbow. It stings a lot when I take a shower, like a bee bite.a aOuch. No broken bones though, huh?a aNope.a April goes quiet in that natural way little kids have on the phone. If thereas nothing to say, thereas nothing to say.

aYou out of school yet?a the soldier asks then.

aOf course not! It isnat even Halloween.a aOh.a For some reason the soldier thought it was spring. Maybe those yellow flowers she spattered all over the room. aSo, have you decided whatas your costume going to be?a she says, trying to cover up her mistake.

aGuess.a aHmm, letas see. A princess?a aThatas stupid. Thatas for little kids.a aOh, sorry. A marshmallow?a April giggles. aNo, silly. Iam gonna be a soldier like you. Mom found the costume in CVS.a The soldier canat talk for a moment. She swallows again.