Hailey's War by Jodi Compton

died of their injuries? Yes, I could, if it was Nidia’s life and mine against theirs.
    I inhaled as though steadying my nerves and said to the guy outside the car, “Okay, just let me explain to her. Her English isn’t very good.”
    Turning to Nidia, I spoke in Spanish, telling her,
Brace yourself
.
    Then, crouching low behind the steering wheel, I stepped hard on the gas pedal. The Impala’s engine roared in response. The last thing I heard was gunfire.

Part II

eleven
SEPTEMBER 3
    The first thought that came to mind, when I woke some time later, was that I was in the barracks, that I had overslept and was going to be late for morning formation. When I opened my eyes and looked around, I realized that wasn’t it.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” an accented voice nearby asked.
    The speaker was a tall, heavyset man with a broad, kind, copper-brown face and the sort of brushy, full mustache that only Hispanic men look good wearing. He was also wearing a white lab coat. He was a doctor. I was in a hospital. At my side, I saw an IV needle taped to my wrist.
    â€œAre you having difficulty understanding me?” the doctor asked.
    I cleared my throat to speak. “No, I understand you,” I said. “You’re speaking English.”
    He smiled indulgently. “So I am.”
    I realized that wasn’t what he’d meant.
    He shone a small light in my eyes. I blinked, but tolerated it.
    He pulled up a rolling stool. “Do you remember your name?”
    â€œHailey,” I said. “Hailey Cain.” My voice was thin and dry.
    â€œWell,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to finally know your name. We didn’t know. I’ve been calling you Miss America.”
    â€œThat’s flattering.”
    â€œDo you know where you are?”
    â€œMexico,” I said.
    I knew that automatically, but less clear was why. I hadn’t been on vacation. I hadn’t flown down; I had been driving. And something had gone wrong.
    Suddenly I stiffened. “Was I shot?” An impossible idea, yet as soon as I said it, I knew it was true. “Doc?”
    â€œYes,” he said. “You were shot, twice. You also had some blunt-force trauma to your face.”
    From when the Impala hit the tunnel wall. Now I remembered.
    â€œNidia,” I said. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
    The doctor looked thoughtful. “You mentioned that name before,” he said.
    â€œBefore?”
    â€œDo you remember being awake earlier?”
    â€œVaguely,” I said. “What do you mean, I mentioned her? Isn’t she here? Haven’t you guys treated her?”
    He drew in a deep breath. “About most of this,” he said, “you’ll need to speak with the police. It’s out of my area of expertise.”
    â€œHow long was I asleep?”
    â€œYou weren’t asleep; you were in a coma. For eight weeks.”
    Jesus. Then something occurred to me. “How did you know I was going to wake up when I did?” I asked. “You were right there.”
    â€œI woke you up,” he said. “The coma you were in wasn’t natural.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œIt was medically induced,” he said. “You needed time to recuperate from internal damage from the gunshots and from loss of blood. The best thing for your body was a short-term coma.”
    That was a hard thing to wrap the mind around. How screwed up did your body have to be for it to need a coma to get better?
    â€œPlus,” the doctor added, “during the brief periods when you were awake, you were agitated. You were interfering with the tubes and your IV.”
    He talked to me a little bit about my injuries, the two gunshot wounds to the chest and the damage they’d done. Then paused, frowning slightly. “Do you remember saying, ‘They were white’?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œDo you know the significance