Wounded Read Online Free Page A

twelve-year-old play soldier?"
    "He is not playing. He shot real bullets from a real rifle at real soldiers. Real bullets were shot back at him. That makes him a real soldier in any book."
    Hassan comes over to me, his hands in his pockets. He looks like a strange cross between a man and a boy. The look in his eyes is serious, with that distance and coldness of men who have seen war. His posture, however, is that of a boy, hands in his pants pockets, foot kicking the dirt with the toe of his battered shoe, yet he has a rifle slung on his shoulder, casually comfortable with the weapon.  
    "This is my choice, Rania, not yours," he says, not looking at me but at the ground between his feet. "They will feed me and give me somewhere to sleep. Less for you to worry about, right?"  
    "What will I do?" I hate how petulant I sound.  
    "Take care of yourself. I do not know." He shrugs, a gesture clearly picked up from these other men. "Stop worrying about me."
    He turns away, clapping me on the back as if I was a friend rather than his sister. He is trying so hard to be a grown-up. I push him away.  
    I am just a girl, dismissed.
    I stalk away, not looking back, angry, fighting empty tears for the brother who will likely die soon.
    "Rania—" Hassan's voice echoes from behind me. He knows me well enough to see the anger in the set of my shoulders.
      I do not stop, but fling the words over my shoulder, still walking. "Be a soldier, then. Get killed. See if I care."
    He does not respond. I hear one of the men slap Hassan on the back. "She will come around, son. Give her time."
    I keep walking, knowing the man is wrong. I will not come around. Hassan is right about one thing, though.
    Only having to feed myself will make things easier.
    I make my way through the dark city, gunfire silenced for now. I am not sure exactly where I am going, but I eventually find my way home. The small box that is my home is dark and smells of death. There is no food, no coffee or tea, only running water in the tap and gas from the stove.  
    I collapse in bed and let myself cry for my brother.

    *   *   *

    Days pass. I do not hear from Hassan,   or see him. I spend my days looking for work, some way to earn money so I can eat. I find nothing. No stores want to hire a girl, or they simply cannot afford to pay another person. I find an old woman who gives me money to help her do her laundry and clean her house. That sustains me for some months. It is pleasant. She has me come to her house every other day to wash her clothes in her little sink and hang them to dry, and wash the floors and sink and toilet, and then she give me a little money, enough to buy food until the next time I come. I begin to have hope that I will be okay. And then one day I go to her house, and she is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her dark eyes are cloudy and still, her sagging breasts still, her hands still. I stand in the doorway of her bedroom and stare at her body, yet another person who has died.  
    I push away my guilt and rummage through her apartment. I find some money, some clothes, some food. I pack it all in a little bag I find in her closet and walk away, leaving her lying on her bed. Guilt draws me back. I knock hesitantly on the door across from hers.  
    A middle-aged man with a thick beard and a yellow-stained white sleeveless shirt stretching over a fat belly answers the door. "What do you want?"
    I reel back from the stench of his body odor. "The woman who lives there," I point at the door behind me, "she died. I washed her laundry for her. I came today, and she was dead. From being old, I think."
    "Did you take anything?" he asks, squinting at the bag on my shoulder.
    "No," I lie, proud of my calm voice.  
    "Hmph." The man stares at me. "You are lying. That is her bag. I saw her with it when she visited her daughter in Beirut."
    Panic shoots through me. "Please. It is just some food."
    He waves his hand at me. "Go. She will not need her food,