Of Dreams and Rust by Sarah Fine Page A

gaze at the fire. “I did know him once,” I murmur. “We worked at the same factory last year.”
    I could say so much more. I could tell him what Melik and I started to build together, and how the last year wore it away, how this morning destroyed it entirely. I could explain how Melik was gentle, how he protected me. I could admit that my desire to protect him and his people is the reason I am probably going to die. I could tell him how my heart is aching, and how Melik’s has turned to stone. All of those laments and confessions are on the tip of my tongue, but it does no good to say them aloud. It might even do harm. I blink and look at the soldier. “My name is Wen, and my father is a doctor. Let me bind the wound?”
    The soldier, with a lean body and eyes heavy with fatigue, says, “I’m Shimian.” He nods toward his fellows. “And that’s Yino, Mabian, Senza, and Lidim.”
    The others nod and mumble their hellos, devoid of the bravado and flirtation of this morning. “Do you have a family, Miss Wen?” asks the one named Mabian, who has a gash above his eyebrow and dried blood striping the right side of his face.
    â€œJust my father now.” And Bo. I have come to think of him and my father as the places I call home.
    â€œHe will be missing you,” says Mabian.
    I swallow back the pain of missing them both and nearly choke on the sadness I know I have caused them. “If my father were here,” I say, my voice breaking, “he would tell me to get to work and take care of my patients.”
    I tilt Shimian’s head to the side and examine the abraded skin of his throat. It is brownish red with dust and grime.
    â€œBajram?” I call, and our guard takes a step closer, his finger twitching toward the trigger of his rifle. I point to his canteen and say, “Please,” then pinch my fingers together. Just a little water is all I ask.
    He shakes his head.
    The soldier at the far end of the line of five, the one named Lidim, lets out a snort. “If you think that Noor is going to offer his precious water so that you can clean our Itanyai wounds, you are very naive.”
    I suppose I am. I glance at the knot of men with Commander Kudret. Melik is a shade taller than the others, easy to spot even when he is wearing a cap over his rust-colored hair. He is gesturing wildly, speaking loudly. His face is lit by the firelight, his smile bright as he entertains the group. He never once looks my way. I thought I understood him. I thought I knew who the Noor were. How wrong I was.
    Without water to clean the wounds and ointment to soothe them, there is little to do but cover them and hope the scraps of my dress will protect these boys’ necks from the merciless chafe of the rope. Shimian holds still while I gently wrap the fabric around his neck and tie it tight enough to remain in place, but not tight enough to hurt him. He thanks me.
    Next to him is Yino, whose eyebrows are thick, with little separation between them. “They’re going to kill us,” he whispers in my ear as I wrap the strip of cotton around his throat. “Your kindness is wasted on dead men.”
    I pause, looking into his eyes. The flames dance in his dark pupils. “Have some hope, brother.”
    â€œHope is a luxury I cannot afford right now.” He shifts awkwardly, wincing as his wrists rub against the blood-spotted rope tightly wound around them.
    A familiar voice startles me, and the soldiers go still. Melik is standing next to Bajram, handing him his own canteen. Bajram grins and takes a long swig, then coughs while Melik laughs and slaps him on the back. Melik gestures at us and Bajram nods.
    For the first time since this morning Melik’s eyes meet mine, but only briefly, like I am exactly as interesting as one of the billions of pebbles and boulders that surround us. He strides over to us and drops a bag at Shimian’s feet.