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back at me. He is older; perhaps he has—or had—a daughter my age. Perhaps he too knows what would happen to me, and is seeking to spare me in the only way he can. I nod at him, a silent thanks. He flicks his fingers near his knee, a quick, quiet gesture telling me to go.  
    I turn and run through a side street, turning blindly until the sound of their laughter fades. I stop running, turn in place to find my bearings. The buildings are all the same, tan walls dark in the moonlight, shop fronts shuttered and barred closed. The city is deserted, it seems. It is not, though, not really. People are shut in their homes, where they have at least the illusion of safety.  
    Alone, lost, I have no such illusion. I walk aimlessly, toward noise, toward the light of fires. I pass clumps of men with the ever-present rifles. I stay away from them this time, searching the groups hunched over orange tips of cigarettes for a smaller figure.
    I pray to Allah, even though I promised myself I would not. "Allah, the all-compassionate, the all-merciful, please, let me find Hassan. Let me find him alive, please, Allah."
    Perhaps it is luck, perhaps it is Allah answering my prayer, but I find him. He is pretending to be a man, hanging his gun over his shoulder by the strap, the awful weapon almost as tall as he is. He stands with a group of men, laughing at a joke someone has told. He does not get it, though. I can tell by the way he looks around to see if everyone is laughing, stopping when they do.  
    I march up to him, fear forgotten beneath the river of white-hot anger. I grasp him by the shirt back and haul him around. I snatch the rifle from his thin shoulder and shove it into the arms of the man next to Hassan. I slap Hassan across the face, once, twice, as hard as I can.
    "You foolish little boy!" I scream, loud. "You ran away, you little idiot! I have spent the entire day looking for you."
    The men are laughing, and Hassan is angry, embarrassed.  
    "Leave me alone, Rania! I am a man, not a boy. I do not need you for my mother. I am a soldier." He takes the gun back from the man beside him and shoulders it resolutely. "I am a soldier. I have killed a man today. I shot him. I, Hassan. I will drive the infidels from our land, and you cannot stop me."
    I take him by the ear and twist it, pulling him into a walk. "You are coming home. You are not a soldier—you are a twelve-year-old boy."
    He wrenches free and slaps me across the cheek, hard enough to spin me around. "Fuck off!"
    I stop, touching my cheek, stunned. "Hassan! What would Mama say if she heard you talk like that?"
    His eyes fill with angry tears. He does not stop them. "I do not care! Mama is dead! Papa is dead! There is only you, and you are a girl. And Aunt Maida, but she will die soon—"
    "She died last night. While you were gone. I had to deal with it alone ."
    He has the decency to look chagrined at least, deflating. "I am sorry, Rania." He sees the relenting in my eyes and puffs back up, dashing the tears from his eyes at last. "She was already dead. She just did not know it. Her body had to catch up to the rest of her. I am still not coming home."
    One of the men crosses the circle and draws me aside, speaks to me in low tones. "You will not win this way, girl. You have gotten him angry, and he cannot back down without losing face. Just go home. We will take care of him. He is a good boy. He will be a good soldier."
    "I do not want him to be a soldier!" I say, too loudly.
    The man only shrugs. "You cannot stop it. It is war. He is willing and able to wield a rifle, so he becomes a soldier. If you drag him home now, he will just run away again as soon as you are asleep."
         I slump and draw a deep breath. He is right, and I know it. "He is my brother. I have to protect him."
    The man shook his head. "You cannot. He will live, or he will die. You cannot change it. At least this way he gets to choose his fate."
    "So I am just supposed to walk away and let a