#warfare2025

“Mina—” she choked, grabbing the girl and lowering her to the floor. “No, no, no—”

“What’s wrong?!” Zaid was on his feet, stumbling, nearly tripping over Samir’s legs as he lunged forward. “What are you doing? What’s happening?!”

Layla barely heard him. She pressed her ear to Mina’s chest, listening — nothing. 

“Move—please—” she gasped, shoving a pillow away and tilting the girl’s head back, fingers fumbling across her tiny sternum. 

“Is she breathing? Is she breathing?!” Zaid shouted, voice cracking as he dropped beside her, clutching Mina’s ankle like it could keep her tethered to this world. 

“Not yet— she’s not— I need space—”

The yell tore itself out of her throat before she knew she was making it. “Samir, Mama, get Zaid out— I need room—”

She started compressions. 

Tiny chest under her palms. One, two, three — her rhythm too fast at first. Breathe. Think. Fix it. 

Her body knew what to do even if her heart didn’t. 

She counted under her breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. “One, two, three, four…come on… five, six… Mina, come back—”

Behind her, shouting. Boots. 

“What the hell is going on—?”

“Sounded like someone screaming—”

“They’re in here!”

The door burst open and more noise poured in. 

Soldiers. Dirt, sweat, guns, radios crackling. 

“Get out!” Layla shouted, breathless, not looking up. “Get out or shut up, just, quiet!”

Zaid was sobbing now. Her mother, behind her, was praying. Samir held onto the bedframe with white knuckles, eyes huge and unblinking. 

Layla dropped down to breathe for Mina, two small breaths, then back to compressions. 

Her arms were burning. Her knees ached on the tile. Her heart felt like it was going to punch through her ribs. 

“Come on—” she whispered, leaning over Mina again. “You’re okay. You’re strong. You’re okay.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward—Ray. 

“Move,” he said. “Let me—”

“Don’t touch her!” Layla screamed. “She’s mine… just, don’t—”

Ray froze. His face shifted. He backed off. 

Layla continued. “Come on, habibti, breathe for me… breathe—”

Suddenly—

A twitch. 

So small she nearly missed it. Then a weak, reedy cough bubbled out of Mina’s lips. 

Layla’s whole body stilled. 

Then another cough. A gasping wheeze. 

Zaid made a strangled sound, crawling forward to grab his daughter’s hand. Layla nearly collapsed back in relief, hands shaking violently as she pulled Mina gently into her arms. 

“She’s breathing,” she gasped, half-laughing through the sobs she couldn’t swallow anymore. “She’s— she’s breathing!”

“Shit,” someone whispered behind her. One of the soldiers. 

“Jesus Christ,” another said, kneeling with wide eyes. “She just— You brought her back.”

Layla didn’t answer. Her face was wet with sweat and tears and grime. She held Mina against her chest, rocking slightly, still counting each shallow breath. 

The room was silent now. Even the radios crackled softer. 

Ray was watching her like he’d never seen a human being before. 

And Jake, standing in the doorway, finally said, very quietly,

“…I’ll see if we can fit one more.”

There was no time to feel anything after Mina started breathing again. 

Not relief, not grief. Just movement. Noise. Decision after decision being made in rapid succession. 

The soldiers spilled into the room like a shift in wind. Orders were barked, gear adjusted, radio chatter flared like static thunder. Outside the curtained window, the street glared with heat and dust. The building vibrated with the coming of something, she didn’t know what. 

She sat on the floor holding Mina, still trembling, the girl’s breath warm and wet against her collarbone. 

Then she heard it. 

“—One evac. One. That’s it.”

She looked up sharply. 

Ray was speaking with the taller man who’d arrived earlier, Jake, she remembered. He was heavier than the others, his hair tied back in a bandana and his eyes too alert. Behind them, another soldier held something that buzzed softly, it was larger than a radio, clicking as he twisted knobs and muttered acronyms Layla didn’t understand. 

“Only Mina?” she whispered. 

Jake was shaking his head. “It’s not safe. They won’t risk another vehicle. Because of the last one—” He made a slicing motion across his throat. 

“No,” Ray replied. “We need a bird. We can’t move them like this. You’ve seen Elliott. Sam can’t walk. We won’t make it twenty feet.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jake snapped. Then, quieter: “The call came down already. It’s been refused. There’s no way—”

Across the room, Erik stood. Not drifted, not wandered — stood. His spine straightened like something had finally clicked into place, his eyes clearer than they’d been in hours. The shadows under them deepened, but his voice cut through the rising din with something new: authority. 

“Then get them to change it.”

Jake blinked. 

“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” Erik said. “Get it cleared. I don’t care how.”

Jake hesitated for half a breath too long. 

“Jake.” Erik’s voice sharpened. “Fix it.”

Layla didn’t move. She watched the exchange with a knot in her throat, her arms still wrapped around Mina’s limp frame. 

Jake ran a hand down his face and turned to the soldier with the radio. “Tell them we’re surrounded. Tell them we’re compromised. If they need to hear a name, tell them it came from Colonel Reese himself.”

The other boy — young, pale, eyes darting — nodded quickly and leaned over the device again. “Say again, it’s been cleared from above. Confirm— confirm, over.”

Layla couldn’t track the words exactly. She didn’t know what a Colonel Reese was, or if such a person even existed. She just watched the others freeze like animals caught in a sudden storm. 

She stood slowly, handing Mina off to Zaid with careful hands. Mina stirred weakly, but didn’t wake. 

Jake moved quickly now, barking new orders. “Get the roof clear. Prep to leave. We’ve got ten minutes, maybe less.”

Ray passed by Layla without seeing her. “Sam’s stable?” he asked her, absently. 

She nodded. 

“Elliott?”

“Not good.”

Ray grimaced. “Alright. We’re going.”

Layla blinked. “You mean… now?”

“No more time.” His hand briefly touched her shoulder. “Whatever happens next, stay close.”

And just like that, the pieces shifted again. 

But in her gut, Layla felt it—

This wasn’t the end. 

Something else was coming. 

And for the first time since the Americans stormed into her life, she saw Erik, their cold, silent leader, become exactly the kind of man people followed. Not because of his rank. But because of the way every single person moved the second he spoke. 

Even Jake. 

Layla stood beside a metal stretcher that hadn’t moved in hours, her fingers pressed into her elbows, arms crossed like a shield. Her scarf was damp with heat at the edges of her neck. The once-soft fabric felt stiff with dried sweat and blood, crusted at the ends. Her chest still rose too fast from running through the building earlier, from the words she’d just heard, from what she knew might be coming. 

She barely noticed anymore. 

“He should’ve bled out,” said the man next to her, his voice worn, like it had been frayed and re-stitched a hundred times. “Anyone else, nine out of ten times, that’s what happens. But he didn’t.”

Layla glanced over.

He wasn’t in uniform — not really — but there was something distinctly military about him, despite the dusty polo shirt with a fading red cross printed on the sleeve. His ID tag read Robert Halvorsen, MD – Civilian Medical Corps. He had salt-and-pepper stubble, tired blue eyes, and a calmness that didn’t come from detachment but practice — like someone who had stood in too many rooms like this one. 

“You’re talking about Elliott?” she asked. 

Robert nodded and shifted the folder in his hands — thinner than she thought it would be, considering the extent of Elliott’s injuries. 

“He’s stable now. Barely. It’ll be a long road. He’ll need multiple surgeries, skin grafts, extensive PT. We’re coordinating a long-term medevac back to the States... eventually.”

Layla watched him flip through the pages. There was blood smeared near the top corner. Real blood. Elliott’s, probably. Maybe Sam’s. 

“I’ve seen a lot of wounds like this,” Robert continued. “IED blasts, secondary shrapnel, bone exposure. But I’ll tell you this — whoever worked on him first, in that apartment, saved his damn life.”

She hesitated. “I just did what I thought was right.”

“Still,” he said, glancing at her now. “I don’t know many civilians who would keep their head with that kind of pressure. You kept him alive long enough for us to do the rest. You probably saved his legs.”

Layla said nothing. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She was still wearing the same shoes she’d worn the day she helped Sam and Elliott, after they’d been pulled in from that broken street. They were scuffed and stained and barely held together. Her soles ached from how long she’d been on them. 

“I was a med student,” she said softly. “Baghdad University. Two years before it… fell apart.”

Robert gave a quiet hum. “Well, if the world doesn’t implode, you’ve got a future.”

She almost laughed, but the sound never left her throat. 

Then — quick footsteps. Fast. Urgent. 

An American soldier rounded the corner at full speed. Young, tall, dirt smeared across his face, helmet askew, sweat streaking down his temples. His eyes were wide, feral — still running on adrenaline. He didn’t look injured, but something about him was worse. Like he’d seen something that wouldn’t go away. 

“Where’s Jake? Or Commander Erik?” he barked. “Anyone got eyes?”

Robert stepped forward. “They’re not here. What’s wrong?”

The soldier’s eyes darted over Layla and back to him. “There’s movement outside. South perimeter. We picked up chatter… locals saying this place might be harboring combatants.”

“What?” Robert snapped. “This is a hospital. Civilians. Kids. There are rules—”

The soldier shook his head. “They don’t care about the rules. They think we’re hiding someone here — or that we’ve taken over the building. And that means it’s now a valid target.”

Layla felt her stomach drop. 

Robert paled. “You’re telling me they’re going to—?”

“Mortars. Maybe more,” the soldier said. “Command’s trying to confirm. But there’s already talk about not risking a second evac vehicle. Word is, the area’s too hot.”

Layla stepped forward without meaning to. “They’re going to attack a hospital?”

The soldier blinked at her, startled by the English. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, but didn’t say it unkindly. 

“She’s with us,” Robert snapped. “She saved one of your own. What the hell are you people doing? We have wounded here. Children.”

“They know that,” the soldier said grimly. “But they also think we're treating their enemies. That makes this a target.”

Layla stood frozen, a ringing in her ears. She looked past them, through the narrow glass window of the ICU. 

Sam lay just visible beyond the glare, his face turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed, tubes in his arms. The steady beep of his vitals was faint but real. 

And still — it might not be enough to save him. 

None of it might be enough. 

She turned back to the soldier, who was already running again, disappearing down the corridor. His footsteps echoed long after he’d gone. 

Robert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They won’t bomb the hospital,” he muttered. “They can’t.”

But Layla wasn’t so sure. 

In the corner, Mac crouched over Elliott, murmuring to himself as he adjusted the pressure dressing around what was left of the man’s legs. The color had drained from Elliott's face completely. Only the slow rise of his chest proved he was still alive. 

Layla didn’t want to look at him anymore. 

The bedroom door creaked softly behind her as it opened. Her mother peeked out, face pale, her scarf twisted around her throat like a noose. 

“Is it over?” she whispered in Arabic. 

Layla turned to her. “For now. Stay inside.”

Her mother’s gaze drifted over to Sam, who was still lying on the floor, leg bandaged and elevated with a pillow. He hadn’t spoken in a while, but his eyes followed Layla whenever she moved. His face was tight with pain. 

“He needs rest,” her mother said, frowning. 

“He needs more than that,” Layla replied quietly. 

Her mother’s eyes softened — worry, not disagreement — and she slipped back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. 

Layla turned back to the main room. 

Ray leaned against the far wall by the front door, head tilted as he listened to the distant thrum of the outside world. He didn’t say anything until she came closer. 

“They’re coming,” he said. 

“Alpha Two?” she asked. 

He shrugged, eyes on the street beyond the barricaded windows. “That’s what Erik says. But it could be anyone.”

Layla looked past him. Outside, in the gray light, the dust was rising. She could just barely make out the shape of a vehicle beyond the warped curtains — low and armored, crawling through the street like a steel beetle. 

Behind her, Sam stirred with a quiet grunt. She crossed the room quickly, grabbing the chipped cup from the floor beside him and offering him a sip. He drank without protest this time. His lips were cracked, the skin along his jaw dark with sweat, dust, and blood. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

“Try to sleep.”

He didn’t. Just lay there, watching her. After a moment, he blinked slowly. “So you do yell when you’re scared.”

Layla paused, eyes flicking to him. She didn’t know what to say, so she knelt instead, brushing dust off of his damp forehead. “You’ll be okay,” she whispered. 

He gave a soft, breathy laugh that turned into a wince. “You lie better in Arabic?”

Layla didn’t answer. 

Behind them, Erik stood near the window, his rifle lowered, face slack with exhaustion. He didn’t seem like a man with a plan anymore — just a man waiting for someone else to make the next move. 

“You still think they’re coming?” Layla asked him. 

He looked at her, eyes bloodshot. “They better.”

No one spoke after that. 

The apartment stretched quiet again — a heavy, waiting kind of quiet. The kind that pressed against the walls and filled up your chest if you weren’t careful. 

Layla sat back, resting her head briefly against the wall behind the couch. The floor vibrated faintly beneath her — not from the footsteps, but from something outside. Engines. Getting closer. 

She closed her eyes. 

If help was coming, it needed to come now. 

The hum turned to thunder. 

Layla was on her feet before the others reacted — some part of her, wired sharp now, recognizing the sound of heavy tires cutting through dust, the metallic grind of weight across broken pavement. 

Jake’s voice came first, barking low and clipped from just outside the front door. 

"Coming in! Alpha Two! Friendly!"

The front door flung open and boots flooded the room again — a different kind of chaos this time, loud but controlled. These men moved with speed and precision, each one sweeping the corners of the space, eyes scanning, weapons tight against their shoulders. They were dirt-covered, sweat-drenched, and battle-worn. 

A tall man in desert fatigues pushed to the front, pulling off his helmet with a grim expression. His face was lined with ash and exhaustion, but his voice cut clean through the room. 

“Erik.”

Across the space, Erik didn’t answer right away. He’d been sitting slumped on the edge of the couch again, one hand on his thigh, staring into the middle distance like he couldn’t quite see. 

Jake crossed the room in three strides, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him to his feet. 

“Erik, look at me.”

Erik blinked, then focused. His mouth moved like he might speak, but nothing came out. 

Jake gave him a small shake. “You’ve got two men bleeding out in here. You don’t get to check out.”

“I—” Erik finally managed. “I didn’t think—”

“No one cares what you didn’t think. Get your shit together. I need a med evac for your people, and I need it now.”

Behind them, two of Jake’s men had already dropped beside Elliott and Sam. One started shouting coordinates into his headset, the other was unzipping a trauma pack. 

Ray looked up from the floor, where he’d been pressing gauze to Elliott’s side. “Took you long enough.”

Jake gave a sharp nod. “We got pinned down six blocks back. Almost didn’t make it through.”

Layla stood off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, but her hands trembled. She couldn’t ignore how they worked — fast, efficient, only touching the soldiers. No one looked at her. No one asked about Samir. Or her mother. Or the neighbors. No one mentioned the little girl coughing quietly behind the bedroom door. 

“Are they all being taken?” Layla asked, her voice low but clear. 

Jake glanced at her. “All U.S. personnel, yes.”

“Just the Americans?” she asked, already knowing the answer. 

His jaw tightened. “We don’t have capacity for civilians.”

Layla felt the words like a stone in her stomach. She looked at Sam, whose eyes had slid closed again, then over to Elliott, who hadn’t stirred since she’d first bandaged him. 

Of course. Of course it would be this way. 

Her mind began racing, calculating distances, hospital routes, what supplies they might still have in the kitchen. There were no options. Not really. Just hope. And hope was running out. 

She stepped back toward the bedroom door, opening it carefully. The room was dim, a single candle throwing shadows across the cracked walls. Her mother was cradling Samir, who had finally dozed off, and Zaid — the neighbor — sat against the far wall, trying to soothe his daughter. 

Mina. 

Layla’s heart jolted when she saw her. 

Mina was curled on her side on the mattress, her little fists tangled in the blanket. Her face was red, and her mouth moved in small gasps. The cough — the one that had brought Layla upstairs in the first place — was worse now. Deep and ragged. 

“Mama,” Layla said softly, crossing to kneel beside the child. 

Her mother gave her a tired look but nodded. Layla reached out, brushing Mina’s damp hair from her forehead. 

The girl’s skin was burning hot. 

“Mina?” Layla whispered. 

The girl stirred, but her eyelids barely lifted. She coughed again, a wet sound that rattled through her chest. 

Panic fluttered in Layla’s throat. She looked over her shoulder, out into the main room where the soldiers were packing gear and preparing to evacuate. 

No one was looking at her. 

They were about to leave. 

And they were going to leave this child behind. 

Layla pressed her hand gently against Mina’s ribs — each breath came shallow and fast. She recognized the signs now. She knew the way fever took children. If not tonight, then tomorrow. It would be too late. 

She stood abruptly. 

“Jake,” she called, stepping into the living space again. “There’s a child. She’s not one of ours— not yours, I mean — but she needs a hospital.”

Jake didn’t look up. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I do,” he said sharply. “And I can’t. We’re at capacity.”

Layla stared at him, disbelief hardening into anger. “So you’ll leave her to die?”

Jake met her eyes — and said nothing. 

Behind her, Mina coughed again. A sharp, broken little sound. 

Ray was standing by the doorway now, watching her. His expression unreadable. 

The med evac would be here any minute. 

They were leaving. 

Layla turned, desperate, and looked back toward the bedroom. She couldn’t hear Mina’s breathing anymore — not clearly. 

Her feet moved without thinking, back through the door, back to the mattress on the floor. 

She dropped to her knees beside the girl, reached to check her pulse—

And froze. 

The sound of boots running past the hallway made everyone freeze. 

They were still here - the Americans. 

Layla’s pulse thundered in her ears. 

The team had gone out through the front door not even three minutes ago. They had carried Elliott between them, guns drawn, tension sharp in the air. Sam had paused in the doorway and told her quietly, “Don’t move. We’ll be right back.”

And then the blast had torn through the morning. 

Now - chaos. 

Gunfire ripped through the front room like an electric saw, short bursts, then louder sustained rounds. Shouts in English, sharp and overlapping: 

“Contact left!”

“Cover the flank!”

“Back! Get him back inside!”

Someone slammed into a wall - Layla could hear the picture frames fall. 

Mina’s cough cracked the stillness. Zaid flinched and pressed her tighter to his chest. “Stay still,” he mouthed to them all. 

Layla pressed closer to the wall, as if her body could sink into it. The walls here were thin. She could hear everything. 

The house had turned into a battleground. 

She reached out, slowly, and slid her textbook - the one she had brought in from her bag - under the bed, as if keeping it safe meant she might somehow survive this too. 

Outside the door, more shouting. A scream - not words, just pure panic - followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor. 

Then came the silence. 

This time it wasn’t peaceful. 

It was hollow. 

Waiting. 

Dread built in her throat. She didn't know if the Americans were alive. She didn’t know who might still be out there - or if they’d come for the rest of the house next. 

Zaid leaned toward the door but didn’t touch it. His face was set, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. 

Her mother whispered her name. “Layla…”

“I know,” she breathed. 

They were only a few thin walls from whatever was happening out there. 

And if the fighting made its way through that door–

Footsteps passed behind her. 

Sam. 

He didn’t speak, just hovered by the door with a rifle slung across his chest. He looked more tired than he had the night before - the strain was starting to show around his eyes. 

"You should eat something," he said eventually, voice low. 

She didn’t answer. 

Instead, she glanced toward the corner where two other soldiers sat on the floor playing cards. Their faces were drawn, the game clearly an attempt to distract from the mounting tension. One of them - broad-shouldered, black band around his wrist - was chewing a piece of gum like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. The other kept glancing at the window like he expected it to explode. 

Near the front of the room, Erik stood by the window, arms crossed. He hadn’t said a word since she arrived. His eyes tracked every movement, every whisper. 

They were all waiting for something. 

Or dreading it. 

Layla finished securing the bandage and stood. 

“What’s happening?” she asked Sam quietly. 

He hesitated. “We’ve been made.”

She nodded. Of course they had. A grenade and half a house blown open wasn’t exactly subtle. 

“You think they’re surrounding the area?”

“Probably already are.”

“Then why are you still here?”

He gave her a tired look. “Because we’re stuck.”

Erik’s voice cut through the air. “Don’t brief her.”

“I asked,” Layla said, turning to him. “Not him.”

The soldier looked at her like she was a puzzle missing too many pieces. “If you want to help, help. But don’t start thinking you’re one of us.”

“I don’t.”

There was a long silence. 

One of the soldiers - the gum-chewer - glanced up from his cards. “You patching him again?”

Layla ignored the question. She could feel the walls pressing in. These men were used to control. To certainty. And now, inch by inch, it was slipping from them. 

They moved differently now - with twitchier hands, with side glances instead of words. Every shadow in the hallway made one of them reach for their gun. One of them - the youngest, maybe - had started tapping his leg constantly. It made the whole floor vibrate in a low, anxious rhythm. 

As she turned to leave, Sam followed her into the hallway. 

“I can’t give you details,” he said. “But if something happens—”

“It already did,” she said. 

He stopped walking. 

“I know the look on your faces. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look people wear before they run. Or die.”

He didn’t respond. 

“I’m not stupid,” she added. 

“I know,” Sam said softly. 

She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. 

“You’re all ghosts in someone else’s house,” she said over her shoulder. “Just remember that when the doors start breaking down.”

In the cramped bedroom below, the air was stifling. Her mother had opened a window, but it barely helped. 

The little girl in the corner coughed again - dry, hard, and painful. 

Her name was Mina, the father had told her in a whisper last night. Mina, only five, with hollow cheeks and lips cracked from dehydration. The cough had started soft two days ago. Now it sounded like her lungs were being scraped raw. 

“She needs medicine,” Layla murmured, kneeling beside her. “Or she’ll get worse.”

The father just shook his head helplessly. 

Suddenly-

The whole house shook. 

It started with a high-pitched pop - sharp, like metal snapping - and then a concussive boom that rattled the lightbulbs and sent a cloud of dust raining from the ceiling. 

Samir screamed. 

Mina cried out in her sleep. 

The windows trembled in their frames, and somewhere upstairs, glass shattered. 

Layla hit the floor instinctively, covering Samir’s head with her arms, as the walls around them seemed to exhale. Her mother gasped beside her, pulling a blanket over Mina like it would stop whatever had just happened. 

Then came the shouting. 

Boots thundering across the ceiling. 

Doors slamming. 

A man screamed - brief and ragged. 

And then: gunfire. Controlled bursts. Loud, close. Too close. 

Layla looked up at the ceiling, her heart pounding. 

Of course people would know the Americans were here. If they hadn’t before, they definitely did after this much noise. This much chaos. They might as well have painted a target on the roof. 

The Iraqi soldiers guarding the hallway outside barked orders into their radios. One cursed under his breath and pushed past the door. 

Layla sat up slowly, her ears ringing, her hands trembling despite herself. 

“What was that?” Samir whispered. 

“A grenade,” Layla murmured. “I think.”

She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to picture who had been near it when it went off. 

The door creaked open again. 

This time, it wasn’t a soldier with his gun drawn or blood on his hands. This one moved differently - more deliberate. Authority radiated off him like heat. His gaze swept the cramped room, pausing on each face like he was scanning for a threat. 

He didn’t find one. 

Just Layla, standing near the door. Her mother beside her. Samir clutching her hand like a lifeline. The little girl wheezing in her father’s lap. 

The officer’s eyes stopped on Layla’s open backpack, which still lay on the floor near her blanket roll. Books had spilled out during the explosion - Human Anatomy, a pocket English-Arabic dictionary, an old gray medical manual with dog-eared pages and highlighted lines. 

He stepped forward, picked one up carefully. 

"You speak English?" he asked, glancing down at the dictionary. 

Layla straightened. “Yes.”

His voice was calm, measured. “What do you know about medicine?”

She hesitated. Then, with steady breath: “I’m a medical student. Final year. Baghdad University.”

He looked at her for a long second, like he was deciding whether to believe her. Then: “You saw upstairs.”

She nodded. 

“We need help,” he said. “Our Corpsman - his name’s Elliott - he took shrapnel. Badly.”

Her stomach twisted at the name. So now she had one to put to the pale face and blood-soaked floor. 

“I want to help the girl,” the officer added, nodding toward Mina, who was now whimpering quietly, her father holding a wet cloth to her forehead. “But my men need your help first.”

Her mother stepped forward sharply. “No,” she said in Arabic, her voice cold and clipped. “She’s not going anywhere with them.”

“Mama—”

“They’re Americans,” she hissed. “They will use you and then forget you. Or worse.”

Layla looked down at Mina. 

The child’s eyes were glassy. Her breath wheezed in and out like wind through broken shutters. She wouldn’t last much longer without real help. A hospital was out of the question. But maybe antibiotics. Maybe fluids. 

And maybe, if she helped them, they’d actually listen. 

“Mama, please,” Layla said gently. “They can help her. But only if I help them first.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with helpless rage, but she didn’t speak again. She turned away, pulling Samir closer. 

Layla looked up at the officer. 

“I’ll go,” she said. 

He gave a single nod. 

“What’s your name?”

“Layla.”

He turned and motioned to one of the men at the door. “Let her upstairs. Carefully. Tell Sam she’s coming.”

The soldier glanced at her like he didn’t quite know what to make of her. But he stepped aside and gestured silently for her to follow. 

As she climbed the stairs again, her heart pounded - not from fear, exactly. She wasn’t afraid. Just unsure. Of the wounded man upstairs. Of her mother and brother. Of the little girl who needed her help. 

For the first time, Layla wasn’t just surviving the war. 

She was stepping directly into it.

The little girl - Mina - was crying now, her cough worse than before. Dry, barking sobs that shook her small body. Her father rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense into her hair. Her fever had risen overnight. Layla had checked. 

They didn’t have medicine. 

They didn’t have time. 

Layla stood, brushing dust off her skirt, her legs still shaky. 

“I need to go,” she said. 

Her mother looked up sharply. “Layla-”

“She’s not breathing right. And I heard someone scream upstairs. Something’s wrong.”Before her mother could protest, she slipped through the door. The two Iraqi soldiers turned, startled. 

“I need to speak to someone,” she said in Arabic. 

“No,” one of them said flatly. 

“It’s about a child,” she insisted. “Mina. She’s sick.”

The younger soldier glanced toward the stairwell. “You can’t go up there.”

“There’s a child down here. She’s sick. And someone’s hurt. I know what a grenade sounds like.”

“No one asked you to-”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Before they could stop her, Layla pushed past and climbed the stairs. 

The stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed, every step a new sound - groaning wood, cracking dust, distant muffled voices. Her hand skimmed the banister, her heart in her throat. 

The second floor looked like a war zone. 

The hallway was thick with smoke and the sharp, chemical scent of explosives. The white plaster walls were scorched in one corner - blackened like charcoal. Pieces of wood and drywall littered the floor, along with a twisted, broken chair. 

And blood. 

“—he’s going into shock—”

“I need pressure here, here— God, he's losing too much—”

Layla stepped into the room and froze. 

A soldier was lying flat on his back, his vest cut open, a jagged piece of metal lodged deep in his side. Blood soaked his shirt, the floor, even the arms of the man holding him down. 

That man - Sam - looked up, eyes wide. 

For a second, everything stopped. 

She took in the scene in flashes: 

One of the soldier’s lips moving, trying to give instructions. 

Sam’s hands clenching soaked gauze against the wound. 

Another soldier fumbling with medical supplies he clearly didn’t know how to use. 

The sound of the wounded’s labored breathing, rattling like crushed glass in his chest. 

Then someone saw her. 

“What the hell - who is that?!”

“She shouldn’t be up here!”

“I only wanted…” Layla’s voice drifted off… she wasn’t sure what she wanted. 

Sam’s voice cut through it all. “Wait— she speaks English?”

Layla took a step forward, voice clear despite the panic rising in her throat. “I’m a medical student. I can help. Please—”

She didn’t get to finish. 

A soldier grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her back toward the hallway. 

Sam called after her— “Wait! Just let her—!”

But it was too late. She was shoved back onto the stairs. 

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the echo of shouting and the heavy scent of blood and smoke clinging to her clothes. 

She stood there in the dark stairwell, heart pounding, ears still ringing from the explosion. 

She’d seen worse in hospitals. In Baghdad. After car bombs. After riots. 

But this was here. 

This was her home. 

And the soldier… he was dying. 

She looked impossibly small in the bed. Smaller than Layla remembered, smaller than she should be. 

Layla stepped closer, barely making a sound. Her legs ached. Her arms, too — tired from lifting, from pressure, from holding onto everyone else’s pain. 

“Mina,” she whispered, crouching down. “Hey, habibti.”

The girl didn’t wake, but her hand twitched slightly under the blanket. 

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” Layla murmured. Her own voice felt far away, like she was speaking through water. “You did so good.”

She smoothed the hair back from Mina’s face with trembling fingers. The child’s skin was warm again, not that awful waxy color it had been before. Still too pale, but not fading anymore. She would live. That much, at least, Layla had clawed back from whatever line had nearly been crossed. 

“You’re strong,” she said, resting her forehead against the side of the bed for a moment. “You’re so strong.”

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in so long. 

Not when the explosion went off. 

Not when Sam started screaming. 

Not when she had knelt over Elliott’s torn-up legs with blood-soaked hands and had to decide who needed morphine first. 

Her body was simply too empty for tears. She’d passed through exhaustion and come out the other side — numb, like her limbs were full of lead. But still she moved. 

After a while, a nurse came in. He looked at Layla kindly, speaking in gentle Arabic. Layla nodded, stood, and gave Mina’s small hand one last squeeze. 

In the hallway again, everything felt colder. 

She wandered through the hospital corridors until she found the outer loading dock, a quiet concrete step facing the open lot. The air was cooler now, dusk coming on, the sky turning a bruised pink. She sat down slowly and pulled her knees to her chest. 

Her head ached. Her ribs ached. Even her skin felt tired. 

The door opened behind her, and a moment later she heard heavy footsteps. 

She didn’t look up as he came to sit beside her. He didn’t speak either, just dropped onto the step with a soft grunt, his rifle across his lap. 

She didn’t need to look up to know it was Ray. 

For a while, they just sat in silence. The soft clang of distant metal echoed from the lot. Somewhere, someone shouted orders in English. Another door slammed shut. 

Layla stared at the cracked pavement, at a patch of weeds growing through it. 

“I have a son,” Ray said finally. “He’s four.”

She blinked. The words felt sudden, like someone had tossed a rock into still water. 

“Michael,” he added. “My girlfriend named him. I wanted something simpler — Jack, maybe — but she said no, he needed a name that meant something.”

Layla turned slightly toward him, startled by the gentleness in his voice. It was the first time he’d sounded like someone who didn’t wear a gun for a living. 

“He looks like me,” Ray went on, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Unfortunately. Has my eyes. My attitude too, if I’m being honest. His teachers say he doesn’t like to share.”

Layla tried to picture it. Ray in a house somewhere, brushing dirt from a little boy’s knees, answering questions about dinosaurs or stars. 

She couldn't. 

“I thought I was gonna die in that street,” Ray said quietly. “When the IED hit, and Sam started screaming, and we couldn’t get Elliott out fast enough... I just knew it. Thought, this is it. I’m never going home.”

Layla didn’t respond right away. The ache in her throat returned like it had been waiting for this exact moment. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she said finally. 

He gave a soft laugh. “Me too.”

But something in her tone made him glance over. And after a moment, he looked away again, as if he realized she didn’t mean it the way he thought. 

Because while she was glad Sam had lived, glad Mina had lived, a part of her was stuck thinking about the thousands who hadn’t. About the men who never got to say goodbye. About the women still searching ruins for their sons. About the fathers—

She stopped herself. 

Don’t. 

Her throat tightened, her chest locking with pressure. 

She thought about her own father. His rough hands. The way he used to hum tunelessly when he read. How he’d saved and saved to send her to Baghdad for school. How he’d been killed in a market that was supposed to be safe. 

“I waited for him all night,” she whispered. “When he didn’t come home. I thought... maybe he’d just gone to help someone else. Maybe he’d found shelter. But by morning...”

Ray didn’t say anything. 

“I hate that I hoped for so long,” she continued, her voice shaking now. “I hate that I still do sometimes.”

He looked over, face taut. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your sorry,” Layla said softly, though there was no heat in it. “I want it to not have happened. I want people to stop looking at us like we’re rubble they have to walk through.”

Ray didn’t speak again. But he didn’t leave either. 

A long silence passed. 

“I can’t imagine losing him,” he said eventually, his voice raw. “My son.”

Layla looked away, blinking hard. 

“Then try harder,” she said. 

The words weren’t cruel. Just true. 

Because he couldn’t understand, would never understand. The Americans didn’t understand how good they had it. How they had all come here voluntarily. Her father’s death wasn’t voluntary. He’d gone to the market to buy food. And he’d never returned. 

Outside, the tank engines rumbled faintly in the distance. Somewhere, a helicopter passed overhead. The world was still moving. Still burning. Still making widows and ghosts out of people. 

She pressed her hands to her face and breathed deep. She didn’t want to hate these men. Some of them had been kind. Some had helped. Sam... Sam had looked at her like she was more than a body in a war zone. 

But kindness didn’t erase what they were part of. 

Kindness didn’t bring back her father. 

And yet, here she was — sitting next to one of them, listening to him talk about his son. Listening to him be human. 

It was so much easier when they weren’t. 

After a while, she lowered her hands. Ray was still sitting beside her, quiet. 

The sun had nearly vanished behind the hospital now, the sky darkening into night. A few stars flickered overhead. 

Layla thought of her mother, her brother. Mina. 

The ones who were left. 

And she promised herself again that she’d protect them all. That she’d survive this too.