been in the desert.
Her fingers twitched on the white sheet, her knuckles scraped raw and painted with yellow antiseptic.
At ten past midnight, her eyelids finally fluttered.
She looked at me, her eyes clouded with the heavy dose of morphine they had given her at ten.
She tried to open her mouth to speak, but her jaw was wired shut with silver metal brackets that caught the light.
A muffled, wet sound escaped her throat.
I leaned closer, resting my hand on the mattress near her arm.
“Do not try to move, Lily,” I said. “The doctor is coming back.”
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She fidgeted with the silver medical wristband on her left wrist, her fingers scraping against the plastic tag.
Her eyes held a sudden, sharp panic that I had only seen in men behind enemy lines.
I reached into my trousers pocket and
