One evening, a young man is dragged through the back door,completely comatose.His friends have no idea; they found him that way.I lean over to check his pulse.His eyes fly open, and he screams so shrilly, I jump back, clattering into a stand of preciously sterilized instruments.
His shriek grows in volume, his eyes bulging in their sockets, while his entire body goes rigid.I sense violence, pain, and fear.An animal, about to break.
Dr.Richard shoves past me, syringe in hand.He stabs the patient deep into his deltoid and hits the plunger.The youth pants and stares, his expression wild and lost.Then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he collapses, his muscles going slack, his wailing now a whimper.His friends remain wide-eyed.I have yet to draw a breath.
“PTSD,” Dr.Richard announces curtly.“Panic attack.Give him fifteen minutes for the drugs to fully take hold; then he can sleep it off at his campsite.We need the room.”
The doctor drags me into the next room before he’s even stopped talking.I’m startled to see that my cabin mates Malalai and Rafiq are back, once more holding Omid in their arms.If he looked pale and sickly before, he is limp and sunken now.
“No.”The word is out before I can stop it.They’re already talking, rattling off new symptoms, ongoing worries, every parent’s deepest fears.I quickly translate for Dr.Richard, though I can tell he’s accurately sized up the situation.
Another blur of recording vitals, documenting latest developments.We are out of IV fluids and electrolytes.Instead, I offer our next best solution—a clean rag soaked in salt water.Malalai presses a corner of the cloth against her son’s blue-tinged lips.I want to tell her it’ll be all right; charming little Omid will be up in no time at all to chase after Isaad and lord over the other ducklings.But the lies are too thick to emerge from my throat.Isqueeze her hand, nod at Rafiq.Then there’s another bang at our rear doors, red patient, incoming, and I have to scramble.
The first moment I see the badly beaten young man, my lungs cease to function.It can’t be.It is.It can’t be.
Farshid.My brother, my dear, dear brother…
Then he opens his dark eyes, and I recoil as if slapped.Not my brother, but Habib, our hotheaded cousin, who is close to Farshid in terms of age and features, but his exact opposite in everything else, including lacking all honor, loyalty, and kindness.
How did he survive?I thought all my uncles and cousins had perished.And why should Habib have survived when my brother was such a stronger, better man?The sheer unfairness…
I try to slip from the room unseen.I can’t afford for any of my father’s family to know I’m here.
Too late.
Through the swollen mess that is his heavily battered face, my cousin’s gaze latches on to me.A second later, his entire expression changes from acute pain to sheer loathing.His bruised lips are already muttering a string of obscenities.Then, as his gaze slides down to my rounded belly… his cursing stops.His sly, triumphant grin begins.
And I go blank with terror.
He fell climbing a tree, Habib mumbles to the nurse.Or maybe he was trying to fix one of the broken overhead lights, or maybe there was a small disagreement between a couple of friends.Like always,he plays it fast and loose with the truth, just as his father, Fahima’s husband, always did.Not that anyone here cares.
Last time I’d seen Habib, he was sitting at my father’s table, impeccably garbed as befitting a wealthy, entitled male from a noted family.Now, he definitely appears worse for the wear.Then again, so do I.
I stand back as far as possible while Dr.Richard sets one broken arm, two broken wrists.He binds my cousin’s ribs, inspects his swollen eye for signs of more significant orbital damage.Dr.Richard asks one of the nurses to administer fluids and painkillers; then when he remembers we are out of everything, he orders me to summon the ambulance instead.I’ve already been told the quickest any emergency vehicle can get here is at least two hours.
Dr.Richard shrugs.There’s no choice then but to leave such a critical patient in one of our only exam rooms.A fox in the henhouse, I think as I keep my face carefully averted.
I return to the entrance, addressing families, passing along instructions.The clinic is full; we can’t accept any others.Here’s some aspirin, try to get your hands on some salt.Sleep, hydrate, rest.It’s the best that can be done.
I peek in on Malalai and Rafiq long enough to see them rocking Omid, the salt-water rag tucked pitifully between his blue-tinged lips.
Then Dr.Richard is back, his curly hair a disheveled mop as he surveys the chaos around him.He glances at his watch, studies the ever-growing crowd of desperately sick and needy.That’s it, he announces.Red patient must go.He instructs me to clean him up; then we’ll move him outside till the ambulance arrives.It’s not like there’s any additional care we can offer, and others still require attention.
Orders issued, he returns to the melee of crying children and moaning adults.He has his war.I have mine.
So I return to the exam room to discover my cousin has regained consciousness and is staring at me in open hostility.
I wipe the blood from his brow.
“It’s your fault they’re dead.Did you not think we’d figure it out?You fucking bitch.”
I dab at the bruise above his cheekbone.
“Two halves of one whole,” Habib snorts in derision.“You and your brother and your whore of a mo—”
I clap my hand over his mouth to prevent further words.Habib’s head thrashes beneath my palm.His nose is broken.It’s clearly hard for him to breathe.
He twists his head far enough to escape my palm.“Where is it?You must know it’s only a matter of time.Tell me everything, and maybe I can convince them to let you live.”
