both of us.
So maybe it makes sense what happened.
A bad week. Me on double alert. In the market. None of our guys around.
There was a shout. Someone yelled something—I thought he said Allah, which scared the hell out of me—and then he came tearing at us, at everybody watching Sam. And something was on fire. He had a torch, or his shirt was on fire, I still don’t know which. I don’t know if he was attacking us or just trying to get some help because he somehow caught fire. People screamed, everyone was moving. I had my gun out, I was trying to see the man, trying to see what he was doing—fast, you got to think fast. And then I saw him.
The kid.
Ten, maybe eleven.
Looked like all the rest of them. Huge eyes. Thin.
And he was carrying something. A bag. Very gingerly. And I saw him look at the man, I saw that he knew him; he was so calm, he knew why the man was running. The kid had this bag, and he was headed straight for Sam. And I saw it. Everything had slowed down. My mind was crystal clear. I could see it all so perfectly.
The man was a decoy. The boy had a bomb. And he was headed for Sam.
“LUIS. ARE YOU AWAKE? IT’S Dr. Ghosh.”
I’m awake. I roll over. I’m not mad anymore. I don’t know why I was mad. But I am a little startled that he walked in right then. Just then. He can’t read my thoughts, but sometimes it feels like he can. It feels like they might just beam out of my head and straight into his. And that makes me nervous.
“Hi, Dr. Ghosh.”
“Luis, the nurse tells me your physical therapy is going well. You’re working hard. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well there’s not that much else to do. Did you notice?”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He smiles, as if I’ve said something funny. So it occurs to me that Dr. Ghosh’s job probably isn’t that much fun—talking to guys like me—and I give him credit for smiling when he gets the chance.
“Luis, I want to ask you about that kid again. The one you talked about when you were still unconscious. Have you remembered anything about him?”
Man, this guy does not give up.
That’s what I mean about him reading my thoughts. I must have yelled about a lot of things when I was knocked out. How does he know to focus on that kid?
Well, Dr. Ghosh may think that he’s smart, and maybe he even thinks I’m some dumb spic, but he isn’t smart enough to get that out of me.
AFTER I SHOT, NOTHING HAPPENED like I thought it would. People started to scream, and Sam came out of his blissed-out yo-yo trance, and I yelled, “Get back! He’s got a bomb!” Then the kid’s mother ran right up to him, him and the bag, and collapsed over the top of him, and nothing blew. Nothing blew but my mind and that crowd and that mom.
And then some guy dropped down next to the two of them, holding the mom, trying to get to the kid. And he grabbed the bag. Held it up.
“This? This! Is a bomb?” He spoke English. He yelled right at me.
And he dumped the bag out.
And Sam, who hadn’t even seemed to react to the guy on fire, just like that, he had his gun out, and he was pointing it, at the man, at everyone, and yelling, “This didn’t happen! This didn’t happen! This did not happen!”
And then he was grabbing me, and we were running, and we were back in the Humvee. We didn’t go back to Kalsu, we didn’t go back until the last possible minute of our leave. We drove all the way around to another village. Got out. Bought something. Sam did his yo-yo thing. Made eyes at some girl, enough so that some guy—her brother, maybe—came out and gave Sam a shove. Sam said, “Hey!”
And the whole time, I was shaking like a madman. I was shaking so hard that my teeth banged together and hurt for days. We didn’t talk. We didn’t say a damn word about what had just happened. There was a minute where Sam touched my arm. Just touched it and held his fingers there, and I think I stopped shaking. But then he let go, and the shaking started again.
Sam
So maybe it makes sense what happened.
A bad week. Me on double alert. In the market. None of our guys around.
There was a shout. Someone yelled something—I thought he said Allah, which scared the hell out of me—and then he came tearing at us, at everybody watching Sam. And something was on fire. He had a torch, or his shirt was on fire, I still don’t know which. I don’t know if he was attacking us or just trying to get some help because he somehow caught fire. People screamed, everyone was moving. I had my gun out, I was trying to see the man, trying to see what he was doing—fast, you got to think fast. And then I saw him.
The kid.
Ten, maybe eleven.
Looked like all the rest of them. Huge eyes. Thin.
And he was carrying something. A bag. Very gingerly. And I saw him look at the man, I saw that he knew him; he was so calm, he knew why the man was running. The kid had this bag, and he was headed straight for Sam. And I saw it. Everything had slowed down. My mind was crystal clear. I could see it all so perfectly.
The man was a decoy. The boy had a bomb. And he was headed for Sam.
“LUIS. ARE YOU AWAKE? IT’S Dr. Ghosh.”
I’m awake. I roll over. I’m not mad anymore. I don’t know why I was mad. But I am a little startled that he walked in right then. Just then. He can’t read my thoughts, but sometimes it feels like he can. It feels like they might just beam out of my head and straight into his. And that makes me nervous.
“Hi, Dr. Ghosh.”
“Luis, the nurse tells me your physical therapy is going well. You’re working hard. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well there’s not that much else to do. Did you notice?”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He smiles, as if I’ve said something funny. So it occurs to me that Dr. Ghosh’s job probably isn’t that much fun—talking to guys like me—and I give him credit for smiling when he gets the chance.
“Luis, I want to ask you about that kid again. The one you talked about when you were still unconscious. Have you remembered anything about him?”
Man, this guy does not give up.
That’s what I mean about him reading my thoughts. I must have yelled about a lot of things when I was knocked out. How does he know to focus on that kid?
Well, Dr. Ghosh may think that he’s smart, and maybe he even thinks I’m some dumb spic, but he isn’t smart enough to get that out of me.
AFTER I SHOT, NOTHING HAPPENED like I thought it would. People started to scream, and Sam came out of his blissed-out yo-yo trance, and I yelled, “Get back! He’s got a bomb!” Then the kid’s mother ran right up to him, him and the bag, and collapsed over the top of him, and nothing blew. Nothing blew but my mind and that crowd and that mom.
And then some guy dropped down next to the two of them, holding the mom, trying to get to the kid. And he grabbed the bag. Held it up.
“This? This! Is a bomb?” He spoke English. He yelled right at me.
And he dumped the bag out.
And Sam, who hadn’t even seemed to react to the guy on fire, just like that, he had his gun out, and he was pointing it, at the man, at everyone, and yelling, “This didn’t happen! This didn’t happen! This did not happen!”
And then he was grabbing me, and we were running, and we were back in the Humvee. We didn’t go back to Kalsu, we didn’t go back until the last possible minute of our leave. We drove all the way around to another village. Got out. Bought something. Sam did his yo-yo thing. Made eyes at some girl, enough so that some guy—her brother, maybe—came out and gave Sam a shove. Sam said, “Hey!”
And the whole time, I was shaking like a madman. I was shaking so hard that my teeth banged together and hurt for days. We didn’t talk. We didn’t say a damn word about what had just happened. There was a minute where Sam touched my arm. Just touched it and held his fingers there, and I think I stopped shaking. But then he let go, and the shaking started again.
Sam
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