Page 58 of War

She stands in front of one of the tents, surrounded by the same faces who welcomed me. Her pants are stained with blood, and her hijab is slightly askew, revealing the smallest sliver of black hair. She hugs herself, looking completely miserable.

I cut over to the group of them, drawn in by curiosity and a deep sense of shared purpose.

The woman’s eyes meet mine as I join the group; recognition sparks in them.

“You’re the one who spared me,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s thankful for that, or if she wants to gut me alive for it.

“How are you doing?” I ask carefully.

She swallows, her eyes flicking away.

Right.

I give her a brief smile. “I’m Miriam.”

“Zara,” she says.

My eyes move to the women clustered around her. “I can help her from here,” I say to them.

They’re happy enough to move on. There are other new recruits who need their attention.

Once we’re alone, my gaze returns to Zara. “So you swore allegiance.”

She’s not like me, I realize.

Earlier, all I saw were our similarities, but after the battle in Jerusalem, the fight had gone out of me. Had I not been spared by War, my body would be food for scavengers right now.

But not Zara.

She fought against the horseman and maybe then she wanted to die, but when the soldiers lined her up and asked for her allegiance, she gave it. She wanted to live.

She sighs. “Yeah.” She kicks the earth with the toe of her boot.

When she looks at me again, I see all those deaths she witnessed. She had to watch, just like I did, as her neighbors and her friends were cut down. And then she had to stand in line and watch them get cut down all over again.

“And this is your tent?” I ask, nodding to the home at her back.

“It’s notmine.”

Right. It’s some dead woman’s tent.

I raise my eyebrows. “What did you inherit?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Moving around her, I pull back a flap and peer into her tent. “Bracelets, a toothbrush, a journal, and some eye makeup.” I list off the items I see. At least the folded blanket resting on her pallet looks new.

“I don’t want any of those things,” Zara says vehemently.

I don’t fucking blame you.

“You don’t have to keep any of them.”

She looks at me forlornly. “What happens now?”

Dropping the tent flaps, I meet her gaze reluctantly. “Do you want me to tell you what you’d like to hear, or do you want me to tell you the truth?”

She works her jaw. “The truth.”