He sat down on the ice. Laid down. His chest and face against the slick, cloudy surface. Should be painful. Glorious shivering pain. But there was nothing. Only the dull throb of his head, growing worse every moment. The sweat. The heat. He wanted to scream. Instead he closed his eyes.
And opened them again in bed, staring at a mosquito net, a curtain beyond that, open enough to show him a long room full of curtained off beds. He thought he caught sight of a bare concrete wall past the foot of his bed.
And it was hot. No ice.
Sitting at his bedside was a woman, watching him as if she was expecting him to wake up. A familiar face. The eyes. The lips, almost like Mona Lisa's smile. The girl who poured his camel's milk.
"You're back with us?"
In English. Flawless, with a British accent. Was he still in Africa?
The throbbing was coming from all over. Aches like he was still being punched. Raised his left hand to his head. Three fingers were wrapped together in tape. The other hand, his pinkie and fourth finger bound together. Felt his head. Bandages around his temple, across his nose. A broken nose. Damn. He creaked his neck until he could see the rest of himself. Lifted the sheet. Bandages everywhere, bruises spilling out from the edges.
"Can you hear me, Adem?"
He nodded at her. Tried to talk, but his mouth was dry. "Um…water?"
She held up a glass with a straw. He sipped, and his body took over, craving more and more. He hit bottom and kept on sucking, the woman having to pry the straw from his teeth.
"I'll go and tell them you're awake." She turned, swept through the net and curtain.
"Wait." He brushed her arm before she could get away. She stopped, turned back. "I don't know your name. How can I thank you?"
A moment. She looked over her shoulder, then side to side, then whispered to him. "Sufia."
Adem closed his eyes. "Okay. Thank you, Sufia. Can I ask you something else?"
"Hurry. I'm supposed to tell your superior as soon as you wake."
"Promise me you'll come back. Come back and talk to me."
Her eyes told him she wanted to, he was pretty sure. But her mouth, the lines around them, showed something else. "If I'm asked to help you again, I will."
She dropped the curtain, pulled it together so he couldn't see out anymore. He sensed men in the beds around him. From somewhere far off, he heard babies crying. Then Sufia's voice, in Somali again, calling for Jibriil.
It should have eased his worry, knowing his friend had been waiting for him. The last thing he remembered, his head being held up to look into the video camera as a punk kid, face hidden under a red scarf, held a knife to his neck. He reached his free finger from his right hand to his neck. Another bandage, right where the knife had been held. Only a second or two from losing his head. What had happened?
Bootsteps. Two men. Then Jibriil swept through the curtain followed by the old man who had handed him the machete for taking the convicted soldier's hand. A holy man, someone who had great influence among the ragtag boy army. Same gray suit. Same white hat.
The tent filled with Jibriil's odor and the dust from his boots. He was smiling. "Back like new, yeah? Like your old self?" Spoken in Somali, Adem supposed as respect to the cleric.
"I thought I was going to die. I thought I was dead."
"Almost. But I stopped them."
He wasn't even there. How did he stop the mob?
Jibriil gestured to the old man, who stood peacefully, hands clasped together.
"We did it. I heard what was going on, and I was with the Sheikh at the time, and pled your case. He made the call to stop your execution."
Seconds from having his head sawed off. A humiliating, unearned death, much like Wayne's. Wayne's dead face.
Adem blinked, lifted his eyes to the old man. "Thank you, Sheikh. I humble myself before you."
The Sheikh nodded. "You are special, your friend tells me. I trust his word. But you were also trying to escape, correct?"
To admit it would mean a death sentence. He'd escaped one, so why would they expect…but he noticed Jibriil's expression, urging him to say yes. To apologize.
Adem said, "I don't belong here. I only get in the way of God's will. I have failed, and I should be sent home."
"A brave young man. You lived through a firefight. You took this beating. You attempted to escape when the odds were against you. No, I don't consider you a failure at all."
Adem couldn't help himself. He started crying. Mercy. He chopped off a man's hand for less than what he had tried, and this man was showing him mercy. He cried and said Thank you over and over even though it made him feel sick.
The holy man moved closer, took Adem's hand, said blessings for him until his tears dried. The Sheikh embraced Jibriil and then left through the curtains. Adem heard more footsteps follow as he walked away. Bodyguards. In case Adem tried some sort of craziness, he realized. Under Jibriil's command. Becoming more and more clear.
Jibriil settled beside his friend, pulled one boot up onto his knee. Big grin. Adem wondered how many bodyguards remained outside waiting for their commander.
"Why, Adem? You could've come to me. Could've said something." In English.
"I did. I tried. But what can you do? What is so hard about sending me home?"
Jibriil shook his head. "I can't."
"Why not?"
Jibriil crossed his arms, yawned. "It's…complicated. You tried to escape. If I were to send you back to the States now, they would see me as weak. They would see you as worse. Everything bad about the West. And they can't let you go."
Adem pushed himself up onto his elbows. Every nerve shocked him with pain. He said through strained teeth, " They tried to cut my head off! "
Jibriil was on his feet. Slapped Adem hard across his cheek. "And you tried to leave like a coward! You tried to kill our brothers! Because, what, you miss the snow? The food? Cow's milk?"
Adem didn't have an answer. Plenty he wanted to shout-I almost died in Ethiopia. The soldiers think I'm a traitor. A pussy. A target. I hate the heat and the dust and the smells and…what they've done to Islam.
Let it slip out. "This war. It's not about God."
Jibriil leaned closer to his face. "It will be when we win."
His friend's odor, days now without a shower. Intense. Jibriil believed what he'd just said. Without question.
Jibriil sat down again as Adem turned on his side away from him.
Jibriil spoke again as if nothing had happened. "They caught the traitor, though. They don't think it's you anymore."
"Who was it?"
"I can't hear you when you mumble like-"
" Who was it? "
"Okay. Okay. I guess he had an Ethiopian wife. You don't know him. He was in another truck that night. So, like I had said, he stayed behind. But I guess he didn't give them enough intelligence. He showed up again this morning, telling us how he escaped and hid and walked all these miles."
"You didn't believe him?"
"He looked in perfect health. Not a scratch on him, well fed, in good spirits. I sent out patrols. We found his motorbike hidden in a burned-out home on the edge of town."
Adem curled tighter. "How'd you know it was his?"
"I told him we'd found his bike. Told him there was a note from his wife in the storage compartment behind the seat. He broke down. Pleaded with me. I told him we could track down his wife now, sneak in tonight and grab her, let her suffer for both their crimes."