This was his form of meditation, a way to release toxins from his body and guilt and second-guessing from his head. His mind focused on the present-the gentle swish of a breeze sweeping through the streets, the thump of his heart, a motor coughing and igniting.
Feeling refreshed and exhilarated, he started to loop the town a third time. Passing a school on the southern perimeter, he spotted ahead a mustached man dragging a suitcase held together with rope and leather belts. The man looked over his shoulder, saw Crocker approaching, and waved at someone to his right to go back. He ducked behind a whitewashed wall, desperation writ large all over him.
When Crocker got to within fifteen feet of the spot, he heard a girl cry out. Past the corner of the school gymnasium, he saw the same man lifting a girl onto his back. She had a pained expression on her face. A teenage boy climbed out of a drainpipe that ran under the track to help the middle-aged man, who Crocker assumed was his father.
Crocker called gently, “Stop.” Then using the equivalent Arabic term, he said, “Waqf.” It was the best he could manage, since he didn’t speak Turkish.
The boy, who looked to be about thirteen, reached into his pocket, produced a folding knife, and grunted a warning at Crocker.
Crocker stopped. It wasn’t as though he felt threatened. He knew he could disarm the kid in an instant, but he raised his hands instead and said, “It’s okay. There’s no problem. I want to help you.”
The older man grunted and, unable to bear the weight of the girl any longer, started to lower her. She let go of his shoulders and slid down to the ground, landing with a yelp of pain.
Crocker thought he understood the situation. “Syrian?” he asked. “You’re Syrian?”
“Syria,” the boy nodded back. He had deep circles under his eyes and the gaunt look of someone who hadn’t slept or eaten in days.
Crocker pointed to the girl, now moaning on the ground and holding her leg. “Your sister?”
“She…my sister. Yes.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Her foot. Bad foot.”
“Maybe I can help.”
The boy held up three fingers. “Three days…we walk. Khan al-Asal.”
Crocker didn’t know if this was the boy’s name or the village they came from. “This your family?”
“Family. Yes. Mother, father, sister, brother.”
Crocker hadn’t seen a mother. He pointed to the sister, then at his own eyes, and said, “Your sister. Can I look?”
The father grunted a warning, and the boy pointed the knife at Crocker’s chest. Simultaneously, a stout woman with a black scarf over her head stepped out from behind the side of the school.
She must be the mom.
“Doctor?” the boy asked Crocker.
“Medic.”
“What…medic?”
“Like a doctor. Yes.”
The kid looked confused. Crocker reached into the pouch around his waist and removed two Bonk Breaker energy bars, which he offered to the kid.
The boy lowered the knife, took the bars, and handed them to his mother and father. They ripped the packaging open and passed them to their children. The girl ate hers, but the boy handed his back. The father split it and handed half to his wife, who wolfed it down.
As Crocker knelt beside the girl, he detected the foul odor of infection. Slowly and carefully he undid a black scarf that had been wrapped around her foot. She winced, while the others leaned in and watched.
“You come far?” he asked.
“Far. Yes.”
Crocker found considerable swelling, a puncture wound on the sole of the foot, and two spots of gangrene-a quarter-sized one near the heel and a small, lighter colored one in the arch. The puncture was deep and required surgery.
The mother, seeing the discolored skin, covered her face with her hands and started to cry.
“Waqf,” Crocker whispered to her.
The woman nodded. Mother and daughter possessed the same dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“Has she had spasms or clenching of the jaw?” Crocker asked, wondering whether the girl had displayed any symptoms of tetanus poisoning.
The boy shook his head. “I no understand.”
“Fever? Hot?”
“Hot, yes.”
“And shaking?”
Behind him blue lights washed over the street and nearby buildings, and a vehicle braked to a stop. This produced looks of alarm from father and mother. The former lunged forward, grabbed his son by the collar, and pushed him toward the drainage pipe.
Crocker turned and saw a black jeep. Three men in black uniforms and hats stepped out. He didn’t know if they were Turkish police or military, or how exactly to handle the situation.
Both mother and father rushed toward the officers, holding out their arms and pleading in Arabic.
Standing in his running shorts, Crocker told them, “I’m an American official. A medic. This girl needs immediate medical attention.”
They didn’t seem to understand him, nor did they appear impressed. One of the Turkish officers pushed him back gently; another grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him out of the drainage pipe. They stood surrounding the family and speaking to one another in Turkish as the girl remained on the ground.
One of the Turks asked the father a question in Arabic, and the father responded with a look of defeat.
Crocker had no ID on him, but he tried again. “American,” he said pointing at his chest. “I work with Colonel Oz. This girl needs to go to a hospital. Hospital, you understand?”
One of the officers stared Crocker in the eye and barked, “Pasaport!”
“Not on me. Back at the military base.”
Realizing the futility of staying, arguing, and maybe being detained, he backed away and said to the son, “I’ll get help. What’s your name?”
“Hakim.”
“Wallace. I’m going now to get help.”
He sprinted back to the MiT compound and found Colonel Oz standing on the front steps smoking a cigarette and speaking on his cell. The sun had started to rise over his shoulder, casting a golden light on the structures around them.
“You might want to conserve your energy,” Colonel Oz said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as Crocker caught his breath. “Your colleagues will arrive within the hour.”
He turned to the clock on the tower to his left. If the time displayed there was correct, they would be there by 0745 local time.
“Colonel, as I was running just now I found a Syrian family-father, mother, and two kids. The girl is young. She’s gotten a very serious infection on her foot that requires surgery. While I was examining it, three Turkish officials arrived in a black jeep. They were about to detain them.”
“Where?” the colonel asked.
“Near a school in that direction.” He pointed past the building they stood beside.
“Fatih Terim Lisesi,” Colonel Oz concluded.
“That sounds right.”
Oz punched a number into his cell with thick fingers.
“I memorized the license plate number.”
“Good,” the colonel said. “I’ll call now and take care of it.” Crocker repeated the number, which Oz translated into Turkish as he spoke into the phone.
“Thank you,” Crocker said. “Later, I want to go to the hospital or clinic where they take the girl and make sure she’s treated correctly.”
The colonel nodded and said, “We have to locate them first.”
Chapter Six
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.
– Matthew 5:5
He stood in the shower, staring at the spaces between the green tiles and thinking how fortunate he and his family were to be citizens of the United States. Most Americans didn’t appreciate how lucky they were, nor did they understand the thin line between peace and chaos. When he got home, he’d tell the story of the refugee family to Jenny. He tried to imagine himself and his family in the same situation, fleeing their home with as many possessions as they could carry.