aI donat know. When I met that girl soldier, Kate, she told me the Americans have thousands of men and boys in that prison. They donat even know all their names, Mama. Maybe when they are more organized, we will get Papaas letters.a Mama looks at me sadly. aIn Saddamas prison they didnat let him write letters, either. But when they locked him alone in a cell for months, you know what he did to keep himself from going insane, my little one? He wrote letters and poems to me in his head and memorized them, every word. Only a poet would do that, no? Then, when he got home, he wrote them all down for me. Look, I brought them here.a She goes to the bedroom we share in the back of the house and pulls out a large envelope from her clothes drawer. aRead them,a she says, pushing the envelope at me. aIave been reading them every night since your father was taken. They help to bring him closer. Maybe they will help you, too.a I sit at the table and take out a bundle of letters, already yellowing and brittle. I have never heard about these letters before and the thought of poor Papa locked in a cell with no paper or pen, working so hard to memorize these lines for Mama, wrenches my heart. aBut these are yours,a I say shakily. aHe didnat write them for me to see.a aI know, but it doesnat matter now. He wrote them to prove that the corrupt have no power over love or art. They contain his spirit, Naema. You should read them.a She waves her hand at them eagerly. aGo on!a So I pick up a letter, unfold it carefully, and, with an ache in my chest, begin: May Allah keep you well and safe, my lovely Zaynab. I think of you all the time in here, of you and your flowing, scented hair. Of our intimacy and the ways we have grown together. Of our children and my grat.i.tude to Allah for their strength, their beauty, for being all a parent could want. Memories of you and our little ones are my way of protecting my mind and body from the blows.

I put the letter down quickly. aMama, I canat read this.a What I do not say is that it does indeed bring Papa back, as if he were here beside me, whispering of his suffering right into my ear. It is unbearable.

But Mama will hear none of my objections. aNo, go on,a she insists. So, reluctantly, I do.

I receive no letters from you, dear soul, but I am sure you are writing them. The guards here are no doubt burning them, for they do their best to use you as a way of torturing me. They tell me dreadful things about what they have done to you and the children, things I will never repeat. But although they succeed in steeping me in fear, deep down, far away from their cruel words, I know, somehow, that you are safe. I feel it with a fatheras instinct, and that of a husband. I feel you and Allah giving me strength.

I wish I could know how little Zaki is faring. Is he managing at school? Is he being a little man for you at home? It must frighten him so to have his Papa gone, but I am sure that Naema, in all her grace and strength, will cheer and distract him. And you, my darling Zaynab, I hope you are not too sad or frightened for me. Do not be. I will keep myself strong for you.

The guards are shouting. They turn us out of the cell all the time to look for hidden weapons or money. It is absurd, for how are we to hide such things here, where we have nothing but stone floors and walls? I think it is only another method of stopping our sleep. They keep bright lights on us all night for the same reason, hang us naked by our arms for days. But I hear the guard opening the cells down the row from me. In a second, I shall be turned out with the others.

I leave you with a poem, my love, albeit a rushed, unpolished one. It is a prison poem, written quickly in my head as the shouts and foul language of the approaching guards clash in my ears like sharpening knives. Here it is. Please forgive its roughness.

A flower trembles in the prison shadow Struggling to blossom, One pale petal at time, Just as I, in this exile, This graveyard of hope, Struggle to remember you, One pale kiss at a time I fold the letter, too shocked to speak. Papa never told me exactly what they did to him in Abu Ghraib. I knew they broke his legs many times and starved him, but I did not know about the other tortures he describes here. I am sickened.

But Mama is merciless. She thrusts yet another letter at me and points to a paragraph. aRead!a she urges. aRead it, Naema!a I do not understand why she needs me to do this, but, again, I obey.

Zaynab, habibati, O you of the deep black eyes and silken skin. O you of the scents and softness, my woman, my wife. I ache for you like a young man newly in love.

aYou see how he loves me?a Mama says then, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming with tears. aYou see how he kept his love for me alight?a aYes, Mama, I see.a And I understand now. She needs to see me recognize Papaas love for her so she can feel it again herselfa"so she can keep it near and alive.

She sits back, satisfied. aRead the letters whenever you want, my sweet one. They will teach you.a But then she sighs and begins again to knead her hands, rubbing her fingers, chafing the skin. aHow I wish I knew what theyare doing to him and Zaki in that prison. Itas so painful knowing nothing! Do you think they have enough to eat? Can they wash and pray?a I lean over the table and place both my hands on hers to still the kneading. aI donat know, Mama,a I say quietly. aBut Iall go back every morning until I find out more. My patience has paid off for Zaki, hasnat it? He sounds well fed and safe. We must keep hoping, thatas all.a I do not tell her how few of us are left with hope among those who accompany me to the prison now. Umm Ibrahim has grown too sick and despairing to come, so stays at home staring at the walls and praying to Allah to save her husband and sons, her daughter Zahra tells me. Old Abu Rayya and his wife have also stopped coming, too weak from lack of food to walk and stand for hours under the scalding sun. Now only two other women go with me every morning: Zahra, always so stolid and grim; and old widow Fatima, who even at eighty keeps up an extraordinary strength and courage. But we know that each day our journey grows more dangerous. Our local militia, under the control of Shia cleric Muqtada al-Sadr, whose anti-American army multiplies by the day, has decreed that any male who is Shia must join their gang or die, and anyone who is Sunni must flee or be killed. And the militiaas imam has declared that women are no longer allowed to leave the village unaccompanied by men. Furthermore, we not only have to cover our heads every time we go out, but our legs and arms, too, lest we tempt unclean thoughts or rape. If we do not obey, the imam has warned, we will be captured and beaten.

We are sliding backwards in my country. We are becoming narrower than we have been for decades. Soon we women will be forced to live the life Granny had to leada" married off as little girls, beaten by our husbands, shrouded, enslaveda"our rights as human beings obliterated. I know that some fundamentalist clerics, who have taken advantage of the current chaos and fear to gain new power, are already trying to obliterate the rights that Iraqi women have had for fifty years. They want to put us under the Sharia laws that treat us as slaves. If this comes to be, how are we womena" how is our culturea"to survive?

It makes me miss my old life in Baghdad more than ever. Yes, we were confined and fearful under Saddam, and yes, I will never forgive what he did to Papa and so many others. But at least I was able to go to school and Medical College as boldly as any boy, wearing jeans and a shirt. I was not forced to think about whether I was Shiite or Sunni, or half and half, as I am, because among the people I knew it did not matter. And I was free to become a doctor, hold a job, marry as I wished and walk through the streets alone without putting my life in danger from men who have nothing better to do than stamp upon the freedom and joy of others.

To escape these bitter thoughts, and recover from Papaas letters, I leave Mama for a moment and go into a small room in the back of Grannyas house. This is where we are keeping Papaas and Zakias belongings for the day they come home. Zakias guitar is hanging by a string on the wall, the way he has always insisted it be hung so that no one in his clumsy family steps on it by mistake. I lift it off, sit on a cushion and try to tune it as he once taught me, then strum it randomly. The sound is jarring, for I have no idea how to play, but it brings Zaki back nonetheless. He is so funny about his guitar, so serious. I remember when he called us in to hear him once, all excited because after months of studying traditional oud music with his tutor, a distinguished but conservative man, Zaki secretly taught himself to play a Beatles song on his guitar. He made us sit in a row, cross-legged on floor pillows like a real audience: our parents, me and four of our cousins. Then, slowly, his tongue between his teeth, his Beatle hair flopping into his eyes, he plucked out a song he said was called aGood Day Sunshine.a He taught us the chorus and the harmony and soon he had us all singing and swaying from side to side. Mama and my cousins understood nothing of the words, of course, but it felt wonderful to sing together anyway, that melody of happiness and love. And when we applauded at the end, Zaki stood up and bowed, trying to look indifferent, the way he thought a rock star would. But he could not keep a straight face for very long and broke into a big, beaming grin.

Zaki, if only I could summon you home with this guitar the way Aladdin summoned the genie with his lamp. Come home, little brother, and be a child again. Come home, Papa, and take us in your arms. Come home and bring with you peace and an end to all this fear and suffering.

[ KATE ].

IT TAKES ME all the way till Julya"five months in this f.u.c.king dust bowla"to finally see a bird in Iraq. I spot it from my tower, but at first I a.s.sume itas a chopper far in the distance because you canat measure the size of anything against this hard, blank lid of a sky. A fly can look as big as a plane, a plane small as a fly. But when the thing comes spiraling down, I see it has wings like s.h.a.ggy black sails and I get all excited because I think itas an eagle.

Then it comes closer and I notice its long skinny neck and hooked beak. It isnat an eagle at all. Itas a vulture. And I know what itas looking for.

A lot of firefights have been going on in Basra the last few days, as well as over in Umm Qasr, this port only two or three miles away from us. Weave been hearing the booms every night, close enough to shake us in our racks. Last night a bunch of us ran out of the tent to take a look and we saw the black sky flashing red and orange, and bullet tracers like strings of pearls shooting up to heaven. It was ridiculously beautiful for something that only means death. Plenty of Marines have been getting killed in those fights. Civilians too, of course.

Vultures go for your soft parts first, you know that? Eyeb.a.l.l.s and lips and genitals. I read that back in high school, in a book about some other f.u.c.ked-up war. Then they burrow through your a.s.shole and pull out your guts. War brings out the worst in animals, I guess, just like it does in humans. In the convoy here from Kuwait, we saw a dog eating a human hand. Just chewing on it, like it was a rubber toy. DJ was so disgusted he shot the dogas head off.

I wouldnat mind shooting a dog myself, to tell the truth. Not that I have anything against dogs, unless theyare eating humans, of course, but I need some way to get out my frustrations. For two months now Iave been stuck up in my tower like a scarecrow on a broomstick while those prisoners fling s.h.i.t and spiders at me all day, and Iam sick to death of it. I feel like Hester Prynne in that book we read in high school, the girl who had to stand up on a pillory so the whole town could jeer and throw things at her acause she slept with a priest or something. Only Iam not n.o.ble and long-suffering, like her. Iam mad as a pit bull.

It doesnat help that Iave been hearing some pretty scary rumors about the prisoners lately. Apparently, the ones on clean-up duty have been rifling through our garbage, finding our letters from home and copying down the addresses so they can send people to the U.S. to kill our families. I donat know if itas true, but if those maniac terrorists could take down the Twin Towers, why shouldnat they be able to find our families and murder them too?

Truth is, we never know what to believe around here, since n.o.body tells us anything. The Army is like a cross between high school and prison, all gossip and scuttleb.u.t.t and rules that make no sense. One day weare told to shoot escaping detainees on sight, the next never to shoot the f.u.c.kers at all. And now that the Red Cross ladies have arrived, things are even more confusing. Theyare always yelling at us about the Geneva Conventions and accusing us of doing all kinds of c.r.a.p I know canat be true. For example, they said four guys from the 320th MP Battalion beat up a prisoner, spread his legs and kicked his b.a.l.l.s to mush. That has to be bulls.h.i.ta"our soldiers know better than that. And they made us stop using the steel containers off the backs of our trucks for solitary confinement because they said thereas no ventilation. But how else are you going to punish a prisoner with solitary when everyoneas in a f.u.c.king tent? The Red Cross is so busy trying to make us look bad that they never even acknowledge the good stuff we do. Like the fact that we feed the prisoners much better food than we get, that we built them showers and c.r.a.ppers way before we built our own, or give them blankets for free when we have to buy ours with our own frigging money. Nor do the Red Cross ladies give a s.h.i.t about how those prisoners treat usa"p.o.o.ping in the sand, exposing themselves. Why do those guys act like that, anyhow? Is it just because they hate Americans? Or is it because their culture doesnat give a d.a.m.n about toilets and cleanliness and behaving like human beings instead of filthy monkeys? I have no idea. But itas getting to the point that all I can think about is ways to take revenge. Poisoning their cigarettes. Burying toe poppers in their compounds. Shooting off their fingers, one by f.u.c.king one.

At least the radio Tyler gave me distracts me a little. I found a Kuwaiti station that plays country and cla.s.sic rock, which gives me something to listen to other than all the sick thoughts wheeling around in my head like that vulture wheeling in the sky. But then aTears in Heavena comes on this morning, that Eric Clapton song about when his fouryear-old son fell out a window and died, and it gets me real upset. It makes me think about April and how Iad never be able to keep going if anything like that happened to her. Never. And then it makes me realize how little kids like her belong in heaven, like the song says. But f.u.c.kups like me definitely donat.

ah.e.l.lo? Excuse me?a Itas a prisoner standing under my tower, calling out to me in English while Iam listening to the song. I hate it when those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds interrupt my private thoughts like this.

aGet your a.s.s away from me!a I point my rifle at him. aAnd no, you canat have my f.u.c.king cigarettes.a The man shakes his head. aNo, no. I only want to hear the song. It is a beautiful song, yes?a I peer down at him through the dust. He isnat the starer or the jerk-off. Heas some other guy I donat recognize, a decrepit old geezer in hajji pajamas. He speaks creepily good English, too, not that I give a s.h.i.t. aShut up and back off!a I raise my rifle again.

He lifts his hands in a shrug, palms out. aI only wanted to ask if you would turn up the volume so we can hear the music.a aI said back the f.u.c.k off!a The man drops his arms and trudges away, head hanging. Who the h.e.l.l does he think I am, the Prisoner Entertainment Committee?

After that, though, the prisoners try to mess with my mind even more than usual. The starer shouts threats at me in broken English. aI kill your father! f.u.c.k your mother in the a.s.s!a That kind of thing. The j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. does every obscene thing he can think of. The other guys throw their usual snakes and scorpions. And so it goes on, hour after hour after frigging hour.

By the end of the day Iam in such a p.i.s.sy mood that I donat feel like talking to anybody, so I lie on my rack reading Pride and Prejudice, which I brought here to keep myself from going brain-dead, and try to ignore everything around me: The rows of guys sprawled on their cots in their underwear, reading p.o.r.n or playing video games, scratching their b.a.l.l.s and belching. The usual group of gambling addicts in the corner, playing cards and dice. The sand-covered plywood floor that bends like a trampoline when you walk on it and shoots splinters into your feet. The sagging walls and ceiling, snapping in the wind and grating on your nerves. The stink of unwashed bodies, dirty socks, cooked air. The restlessness. The boredom. The heat.

Yvette walks in about twenty minutes later, back from her mission up at Baquba after a three-day absence, and Iam so relieved to see her in one piece that I actually get up, tired as I am, and give her a hug. Every time she goes out on a convoy, I worry that sheall never come backa"it gnaws at my guts all the time. Sheas so bony that hugging her feels like squeezing a bag of clothespins.

aYou donat wanna hug me, I need me a shower bad,a she says, pulling away. She looks like h.e.l.l. Lips cracked and eyes red and puffy, circled with blotchy dark patches. aI gotta relax a second.a She collapses onto her rack.

I sit on Third Eyeas cota"sheas still out at the checkpointa"and look at Yvette with concern. aWas it h.e.l.l out there? You get any sleep?a She shakes her head. aYou didnat hear what happened?a aNo, what?a aA f.u.c.kina IED hit our lead truck, thatas what. Killed Colonel Borden outright. Blew off both of Halbergas legs and his right arm. I never seen so much blood.a She rubs her red eyes, hard. aI donat know if the poor suckeras gonna make it or not. And if he does, heas only gonna have half a body.a Her voice trembles. aHeas got a new baby back home, Kate. He showed me her picture. Howas he gonna play with that baby now?a aJesus.a aYeah. Wish Head f.u.c.kina been there.a I glance up at Momas crucifix on my tent post, right above Fuzzy, whoas all shriveled now, his pale legs dry and curly. I donat know which of them looks more useless.

aYou ready for that shower?a I say. aMight make you feel better. Iall go with you.a aYeah. I guess.a Yvette heaves herself off her cot and the two of us pick up our rifles and helmets and head outside.

aYou know somethina?a she says after a few minutes, while weare tramping through the sand. aI made myself a decision out there in that truck, waiting to see who was gonna die next.a I look over at her, expecting to hear her say that sheas changed her mind about the Army, that sheas going to quit the minute her timeas up and never look back. Thatas what most of us are saying these days.

aI made me a bargain with G.o.d,a she goes on. aI said, Lord, if You get me out of this war in one piece, Iall go to school and train to be a medic. And then Iall sign up to come back to this sorry-a.s.s place so I can put poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like Halberg back together. I mean it, Lord. You listenina?a She looks over at me, her dry mouth set tight.

aI guess He was, since youare still here.a I smile at her. But at the same time I feel this sheet of ice drop through my chest. Because while Yvette was out there in all that danger, making her sweet-hearted deal with G.o.d, I was sitting up in my tower, snug as a bug, dreaming about shooting peopleas fingers off.

After we get back from the showers, I lie on my cot trying to sleep, but itas hopeless. The prisoners are making an unbelievable racket, much worse than usual. Screaming, chanting, shrieking. But it isnat only that. On my left, Mackas fiddling with himself and grunting in the most disgusting way. On my right, I can sense Third Eye wide-awake, tense and miserable. And over beside her, tough little Yvette is lying with her face in her pillow, trying to m.u.f.fle her sobs.

The next morning, Yvette has to leave on an early convoya" no rest for the weary in war. But before she goes, I lift Momas crucifix off my tent post and hand it to her. aThis is to keep you safe out there, okay babe?a What I really want to do is wrap my arms around her and make her stay with me.

aYou sure? I thought it was real important to you.a aYeah, but you need it out there more than I do. Iam stuck in my tower all day. Come on, take it.a She hesitates. aI donat think I should. Itas yours.a aNo, I really want you to have it. Please? Itall help me feel better when youare out there. Do it for me, Yvette, okay?a She studies my face a second, her tired eyes serious. aOkay, Freckles. Thanks.a Pulling a length of string from her pocket, her expression solemn, she threads the crucifix on it like itas a precious jewel, not just a piece of c.r.a.ppy white plastic. Then she hangs it around her neck, gives me a wave and leaves.

What I donat tell her is that I canat stand the sight of that thing any longer. Canat take Jesus looking down on me while I fill up with hate. Specially not Momas Jesus.

After Yvette leaves, my team picks me up as usual and we drive to our compounds. aYou all hear that ruckus the hajjis were making last night?a Jimmy asks us once Iam squeezed into the back next to Mosquito.

aYeah,a Creeley answers, steering us b.u.mpily down the sandy road. aWhat the f.u.c.k was their problem, nothing good on TV?a Jimmy chuckles and shakes his head. aHenley said the whole f.u.c.king compound was out of control. Throwing rocks and hollering. One of our guys got hurt, couple prisoners got shot. So now weare in deep s.h.i.t with the Red Cross.a He turns to face me and Mosquito. aBut it means Hajjias real riled up today, so you two need to keep an extra eye on your compounds, okay?a aGot it, Sarant,a Mosquito says. aMoral: donat shoot a f.u.c.kina sand n.i.g.g.e.r while the Red Cross is watching.a Sure enough, soon as I get to my tower I sense that the tensionas much worse than usual. The stareras glaring at me like a snake, and the other prisoners keep bursting into angry shouts, although mostly aimed at each other. I scan the compound, doing a quick count. Forty-four of those suckers are out here today, two entire tentsa worth, and every last one of them is strung tight as a slingshot.

Settling onto my chair, I lay my M-16 across my knees and stare down at the corral of sand between the tents and the wire. I know each grain of that sand by now, each pathetic tuft of dried shrub, each spot of rust on the wireas razor blades. Our little world.

The squabbling goes on a while. Sometimes it dies down for a few seconds, but then it flares up again worse than ever. The prisoners keep gathering in clumps, too, waving their arms and yelling, which I donat like at all. I can feel the mood tightening around my skin like a rope. Gripping my rifle, I move to the edge of my hot seat.

A second later, two of the prisoners start a furious argument. They thrust their faces up nose-to-nose, hollering and shoving and jabbing at each other, until a bunch of other guys come running up to join in. One punches another in the jaw and in a flash the whole d.a.m.n pack of them erupts into a full-scale brawl.

I jump to my feet and yell into my walkie-talkie, telling the MPs inside to get their a.s.ses out here and break up the fight, but the stupid piece of c.r.a.p isnat working, of course. All I get is static. I try yelling at the prisoners at the top of my voice, too, but that doesnat do anything eithera"they canat even hear me, theyare making such a rumpus. Theyare out of control now. Noses bleeding. Guys rolling on the ground, punching and clawing, kicking in ribs, stamping on hands. I donat know what to do except stand up here waving my arms like a r.e.t.a.r.d. So I flick the safety off my weapon, point it up into the air. And fire.

Itas only a warning shot but it stops them dead. All the prisoners duck and freeze, searching the sky for where the shot came from, looking scared and confused. And, well, I know this sounds bad, but they look so ridiculous for a moment, like a bunch of Chicken Littles trying to see the sky falling, that I burst out laughing.

Wham! Something hits me on the cheek so hard it spins me half way around on my feet. I drop to my hands and knees, stunned. Am I shot? I donat feel anything except a scary numbness on my face. I touch my cheeka"blood! But before I have time to react, a hail of stones comes flying at me, pelting me hard all over, banging off my helmet like bullets. Where the h.e.l.l are the other MPs when I need them? Whereas my team? f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!

I lift myself to my knees, the stones still coming at me, close my eyes. And fire again.

But this time I donat aim into the air. I aim right at the compound.

Then I drop to the floor, cover my head with my arms. And wait.

Silence. Not even the echo of my shot, since thereas nothing for it to echo against. No sound but the ringing of it in my own ears. No more stones. Nothing. I try to make myself open my eyes and look. But Iam too scared.

Please G.o.d, donat let me have hit anyone. Not even the jerk-off, not the starer, none of them. I donat want a body on my conscience. I donat want to get into trouble. Please.

I wait and wait. The stillness is eerie. Nothing but the desert whistle and the crack of the shot still pulsing in my head.

Finally, I force my eyes open. Stand up and look.

No dead body. No pool of blood. Only a few MPs, whoave appeared at last to see what the h.e.l.las going on and are herding the prisoners into their tents.

Ah, the power of a gun.

Jimmy turns up a few minutes later, carrying a can of c.o.ke. aYou okay?a he calls from the ground. aI heard the ruckus. They got the whole compound on lockdown now, giving them the third degree.a He climbs up the ladder. aJesus, what the h.e.l.l happened to you?a Iam sitting on the tower floor, rifle right next to me, trying to stem the bleeding on my cheek with my sleeve. aThe f.u.c.kers. .h.i.t me with a stone.a as.h.i.t. You all right?a He crouches beside me.

aYeah. But where the h.e.l.l was everybody? Whyad the MPs get here so late?a aThey were dealing with some trouble on the other side. Sure youare okay?a aUh-huh. You think the hajjisall come back out soon?a aNot for a while. Here, let me take a look.a Jimmy puts down his c.o.ke, takes off his shades and peers into my face. His breath smells of c.o.ke and tobacco, but somehow itas kind of pleasant. He lifts my jaw gently, turning my wounded cheek toward him. n.o.bodyas touched me like that for months.

aYou better go to the medic and get that st.i.tched. Let me put some disinfectant on it. Does it hurt?a I shake my head. I donat seem to be able to speak.

He digs into the green Combat Lifesaver bag he carries on his back. A lot of soldiers have those. You take a course for four days or so and they give you a bag to carry with you all the time, with an IV in it, catheters, bandages and so on. In Jimmyas case, he also carries condoms for soldiers to put on the ends of their rifles or d.i.c.ks, whichever happens to be required. I almost took that course too, once, but when I heard you had to learn how to put needles in peopleas veins, I gave up. Too squeamish.

aHold still.a He tilts up my chin with one handa"that gentle touch againa"and carefully wipes off the blood and dust with some cotton. Heas bent real close to me now, his forget-me-not eyes only a couple inches from mine. I look right into them, canat stop myself. And he looks right back.

aItas not as deep as I thought,a he says, dabbing my cheek with antibiotic gel. aIall put a bandage on it. Thatas probably all you need.a aYou think Iall have a scar?a He smiles. aI doubt it. But even if you do, itall only make you look like a s.e.xy pirate. You want me to send someone to spell you so you can go to the medic, just in case?a aNo, itas okay.a aSure?a He touches my cheek again, below the cut, and lets his fingers linger there a second.

aYeah,a I breathe. aIam sure.a Weare still looking in each otheras eyes.

aI brought you a c.o.ke,a he says after a pause, almost whispering. aYou want it?a I nod. He breaks our gaze at last, yanks a second can out of his pocket and hands it over. Still shaky, I take a swallow. Itas warm and nasty, but at least itas wet.

Jimmy settles down next to me on the platform floor, so close his armas touching mine. Then we sit in silence a while, staring at the empty compound. A rare wisp of cloud wanders across the sun, its shadow crawling along the sand like a giant crab. I watch it every inch of the way.

aJimmy?a aYeah?a aIaa A flush rises over my cheeks.

aWhat?a He turns to face me, his eyes warm and kind.

aI shot at them.a aSo?a aI mean they were throwing stones. Fighting. Buta I tried to kill them.a aOf course you did. Youare a soldier. Thatas what soldiers do.a aBut theyare unarmed!a Jimmy takes both my hands in his. aAnd if they werenat, donat you think theyad kill you in a flash? Look at what they just did! Donat make yourself feel bad about this, Kate.a aBut suppose Iad killed one of them?a aItas them or us out here, you know that. Youare just doing your job.a aI am?a aOf course you are. They asked for it, donat worry.a I look down at his hands holding mine. I want to believe him. But if what he says is true, why do I feel so dirty?

aWHOA,a SAYS THE nurse when the soldier comes stalking back into her room. aThey send you back here already? What you do, insult that poor therapist lady?a Whatas so poor about Pokera.s.s? aNo,a the soldier says aloud. aI just didnat want to be there.a She throws herself on the bed.

aYouad feel better if you cooperated a little, honey-pie. They only wanna help you.a aSome help. Look, am I allowed to use this phone here?a aSure. Just pick it up and dial nine first. Itas only cell phones they donat allow.a aThanks.a aIall leave you to have some privacy. But Iall be back soon. You canat get rid of Nurse Bingham that easy.a The nurse waddles toward the door while the soldier takes her first really good look at her. The nurse is short and wide and on the cuddly side of fat. Skin a rich, dark brown, like Yvetteas. Face as round as a frying pan. The soldier realizes she hasnat been taking things in much lately.

aNurse?a she says. The nurse turns to listen. aThanks. Thanks for everything. Youave been real kind.a aNever mind that, honey. Looks like you feeling better now, talkina ana all. Thatas good. Iall be back.a After the nurse has gone, the soldier sits upright on the edge of the bed and looks at her hands again. Theyare shaking as badly as ever. Then she looks at the phone, trying to make herself move.

At last, she forces herself to pick up the receiver. Slowly, she punches in the numbers sheas been chanting in her head for weeks. The phone rings five times, each ring shooting through her nerves like an electric shock.

She doesnat even know if heas back yet. If heas alive. If heas whole.

He finally picks up. Even before heas said anything, she senses itas him.

aHi,a she whispers.

No reply.

aYou there?a Nothing.

aYou want me to hang up?a aNo,a he says. aDonat do that.a At the sound of his voice, she closes her eyes. She never knew missing someone could hurt this much. A metal claw gouging at her chest.

aWhat do you want, Kate?a He sounds tired.

She squeezes her eyes shut even harder because his words hurt too. But then she knew they would before she called him. aJust to know that youare back and safe. If youare okay.a aWhat do you think?a Heas angry now.

aI miss you. I miss you real bad.a Silence.

aAre you home?a he says finally.

aNo.a aWhere the h.e.l.l are you, then?a aAlbany VA Center. Inpatient. Itas my back anda you know, stuff.a aThatas why you sound so dopey. They put you on those f.u.c.king pills, didnat they?a aCome get me, Jimmy. Please? I canat stand it in here. Itas making it worse.a aYou know I canat do that.a aNo, I mean it. Please.a [ KATE ].

ONCE JIMMYaS GONE back to his post, I stay on my tower floor, still too shaken up to movea"after all, itas not every day that a person gets stoned by a bunch of hysterical hajjis. I feel safer down here than on my chair because Iam less visible, but I wish Jimmy couldave stayed anyhow. The heat closes in tighter and tighter, tension cramping my neck and shoulders while I wait for the prisoners to come back out. Who knows what theyall do to me next? Itas real war between us now.

But the prisoners donat come back out. They stay inside their tents so long I figure theyare either still on lockdown or theyare having one of their meetings. Each tent of detainees is allowed to elect a leader among their own to hold meetings, take down grievances and keep some kind of order. Thatas the theory, anyhow. My guess is all they do is plot how to escape or kill us. They escape all the time at night. Not only through that tunnel DJ told us about, but because any fool can scoop out the soft sand weare living on, slide under the rusting wire and run. I mean, building a prison on sanda"are you kidding? Still, the delay gives me time to push Jimmy out of my mind, move back up to my chair, do a quick clean of my rifle and get myself ready in case they attack again.

Finally, a few prisoners do appear, shuffling back out into the corral, muttering among themselves. Some are in man-dresses, some in loose shirts and pants, all of them dusty and unshaven and slumped. Out they file, like a herd of scruffy goats. But not one of them looks at me.

Then I hear a scream. A terrible, desperate scream. I jump to my feet. What the f.u.c.k is happening now? A prisoner bursts out of one of the tents, clutching his head and howling like heas in horrible pain. I stare at his dirty Western clothes, his gray-streaked hair, and I know exactly who it is: the jerk-off. A few prisoners run up to him, but he pushes them away and flings himself onto his knees. Still howling, he throws sand over his head, grabs his hair and begins tearing it out at the roots. I can see the blood on his scalp, even from here. I can see clumps of his hair scattered in the sand, too.

Again, the other prisoners try to calm him, and again, he shakes them off. Then he staggers to his feet, and before anyone can react, he runs at the razor wire and hurls himself against it, smack into the jagged blades. Over and over he flings himself at it, ripping his arms and hands and belly to shreds.

aStop!a I holler and rush to the edge of my platform. aStop that right now!a But my voice floats away in the desert air, no louder than a whimper. Iam still standing there shocked when I hear my name called.

aKate, come down quick!a Itas Jimmy again. aNow!a I scramble down the ladder, rifle over my back, and follow him, although Iave no idea why. He runs around the corner to the entrance of the compound, where a couple of MPs I only know by sight nod at me and beckon me inside. Next thing I know, Iam running with them across the same sand corral Iave been staring at for weeks, till weare right up behind the jerk-off.

Four MPs are holding him now, his arms twisted behind his back. His hands are torn and bleeding all over his dirty white shirt and heas bent over, limp. But heas still sobbing and moaning.

One of the MPs hands me a pair of zip strips, these plastic handcuffs that look like giant versions of garbage bags ties. aBe my guest,a he says.

Then I get it. This is the revenge Jimmy promised me! I donat even hesitate. I grab the jerk-offas shredded hands, cuff them behind his back and pull the cuffs tight, just like I was taught in MP training. Then I kick the back of his knees so he falls, put my foot on his shoulders and shove his pervert face right into the sand. aEat dirt, f.u.c.ker!a I yell. I want him to know that a girl is doing this to him, one of those females he thinks is no better than the s.h.i.t heas been throwing at me. I want him to know how it feels to be treated like youare not even human. So I stamp my boot down on the back of his head and grind his face deep into the desert.

It feels great.

The MPs are laughing. aYou go, girl!a says a big sergeant with the name Flackman on his uniform. aAnything else? The crazy f.u.c.kas all yours.a aYeah,a I say. aOne more thing.a And I bend over and pick up the jerk-offas head by his blood-matted hair so I can look right into his evil eyes and show him who I am.

I stare at him a moment, seeing his face close-up for the first time: his eyes streaming tears, his nose and mouth filled with snot and blood and sand. Heas struggling for breath, choking, his chest heaving.

I drop his head and back away. Oh G.o.d.

aSomething wrong?a Flackman asks. The prisoneras still on his stomach, gasping, his face pressed into the sand. Ragged hands leaking blood all over his back.