Green on Blue Read Online Free

throat choked against the words. From a drawer in his desk, the man pulled out a folder filled with handwritten lists. He sorted through the reams of lined paper, scrawled with blue ink. He slid the mess back in the folder, shook his head, and tossed the stack into the drawer.
    These are all the ones with missing legs, he said. Your brother is not here.
    He is here. He was brought in last night and wheeled into there, I said, pointing to the surgery ward. Look again, Ali Iqtbal.
    He may be here, answered the man, but he’s not on my list. They’ve been adding names all morning. Check back later.
    He palmed down a few licks of fallen hair.
    I stepped from the desk and looked along the hallway. At its far end stood two men. From their mouths, I could see words passing quietly and quickly between them. One of the men was light-skinned, clearly an American. He’d grown a large beard, but its bush was an unconvincing disguise, thick and blond as it was. I could feel his eyes rest on me frombehind the sunglasses he wore even inside. He spoke a last word to the other man and walked away. This other man walked toward me, talking loudly.
    What’s the problem, brother?
    He spoke perfect Pashto, but wore an American uniform. He took a few steps closer. I wanted no dealings with an American, but when I got a better look at him and saw his hooked nose, high cheekbones, and lean muscled frame, I knew he was a Pashto.
    My brother, I can’t find him, I said.
    He came in last night? asked the man, his question reeking of cigarettes.
    I nodded.
    After Gazan’s attack? he added.
    I’m not sure. It was after the attack at the bazaar.
    Yes, Gazan’s attack, said the man. As for your brother, you are not asking the right people. Come.
    He led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor. We walked down another linoleum hallway and arrived at a corner door. A stencil on the door read HOSPITAL SUPERVISOR .
    What is your name? he asked me.
    Aziz Iqtbal. My brother is Ali.
    Very good, I am Taqbir, said the man. I’ll take care of this for you.
    I crouched against the wall and waited. As I did, I saw two other men dressed like Taqbir walking up and down the corridor. They wore the same green-and-brown-spotted uniform. Every so often, they entered one of the private rooms or spoke with family members who waited outside. They’d kneel, place a wife or grandmother’s hand between theirs, speaking quietly. Though the two seemed gentle and earnest, I felt suspicious of them.
    After a few minutes, Taqbir returned. I have found Ali, he said. But there is something you should know.
    I looked back at him, stupid and afraid.
    Taqbir continued: His name is not listed with those who lost a limb.
    But I saw him. His leg was missing.
    That may be so, he answered. But Ali is listed as having a serious injury to the organs.
    He paused.
    I stared back. Taqbir watched me, hoping I understood.
    As a man, he said, your brother is no longer complete.
    Tightness spread across my chest, through my throat, and into my mouth and eyes. It spread as a web does, weaving into parts what was once whole. Taqbir rested his hand along my shoulder. He fixed a solid stare at me. I wanted his strength.
    It is only right that you should know this now, he said. You will need to be strong when you see him.
    I nodded.
    It had not occurred to me that I would need to be strong for Ali. I’d hoped some assurance of his might allow me to accept what happened. But this horror was for all time. To survive, Ali now relied on me.
    I thanked Taqbir, but I didn’t want to thank anyone, my resentment was so great for all I’d lost. I felt very small standing next to him. I looked into the gray flecks of his eyes, like a hawk’s, and at his face, with its sharp and certain angles. All of it offered me nothing but pity.
    We walked outside, to a yard behind the hospital’s main building. Here the ground was hardpan dirt. On it rose a large three-pole military tent. Parked next to the tent