A Missing Peace by Beth Fred Page A

but as soon as I figured out we were running, I kept pace.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œI don’t know. We’ll try the back exit.”
    We passed an exit, but we didn’t take it. It led to the front door, the most dangerous way to go. Clutching Baba’s hand, I ran to the back exit like he said. He pushed the door open, but smoke hit us in the face. This was a no go.
    We ran back to the front exit. It would be dangerous, but we couldn’t stay here. Baba prayed Hail Marys down the stairs, and I joined in, because it seemed like the thing to do. Neither of us knew if we would come out of this. The prayer couldn’t hurt either way.
    We got down the stairs one flight at a time. One. Two. Three. Baba was old. He was slowing down. I dragged him along now. We shot out of the front exit. We were out of the doors and into the emergency drive in three large strides—just in time, because most of the building collapsed into red and orange flames behind us.
    American soldiers crowded the driveway. They waived guns and shouted in English. My English was good—fluent even—but I only caught parts, because the world was spinning, and my brain could only function in Arabic.
    â€œTerrorists.” I heard the word clearly and repeated over and over. Then “He’s a terrorist.” Apparently the guns pointed in the direction of the terrorist. I looked to my left and Baba must have done the same. The man they’re talking about lay on his back in a puddle of blood. He didn’t look like a terrorist, only a dying man.
    Baba’s head darted around. “Play dead, Mirriam,” and then he rushed to the dying man. He knelt beside him and stuck his hand where blood gushed from the man’s abdomen. He talked about work at home enough for me to know what he was doing. He tried to slow the bleeding.
    â€œTerrorist!” The word continued to ring out.
    Someone argued. “Civilian aid. He’s a doctor.”
    Then I heard, “Aiding a terrorist is an act of terrorism. Shoot!”
    My dad was not a terrorist. He was a doctor. And he wasn’t the one waiving a gun around manically. I ran for him.
    His head blew off before I could close the distance between us.
    I heard my own screams shrieking out as piercing as their bullets.
    â€œGet her, too.”
    An American soldier ran toward me. “What are you doing? What’s going on?” the others called out. Some of them put their guns down. Others looked to the side as if they expected someone to tell them what to do.
    The soldier grabbed me at the waist. I kicked him as hard as I could. “Calm down,” he said.
    Like hell. They could kill me, but I wouldn’t die without a fight.
    â€œMiller, back down,” someone barked.
    â€œShe’s a kid,” the soldier restraining me said.
    â€œBack down,” the order was barked again.
    â€œI’ve got a kid her age. I’m not watchin’ this.”
    â€œShoot,” was the next order barked. “Truman, you have a clear shot.”
    â€œCaptain—”
    â€œShoot the girl. If Miller doesn’t move, his wife will get his dog tags.”
    â€œCaptain—”
    â€œYou don’t second guess the mind of a terrorist. I don’t care if she’s fifteen or five.”
    My eyes stared right in front of me at the voice that kept calling, “Captain”. He was probably the same age as Abrahem, but holding a gun made him look older.
    I saw the gun for a millisecond. Then my whole body turned, but I wasn’t the one doing the turning. I hit the concrete on my knees, and the soldier behind me fell. He writhed in pain. His skin was white, his jaw strong, and his eyes brown. He was a typical All-American hero.
    He saved my life. He turned into the bullet. I had to get out of here, now. I couldn’t help this man, and if I tried, they would shoot me.
    I pulled off the necklace I wore every day—a golden