Page 47 of Whisper

He tried to run, but when he turned, David was right behind him, closer than his own shadow. Kris couldn’t get around him, couldn’t get away from him.

I thought you were worth—

He woke before David finished, gasping and clawing at his sleeping bag, at the arms holding him tight. David clung to him, burying his face in Kris’s neck, both arms around Kris like he was David’s teddy bear. He snorted and stretched, but let Kris go long enough for him to escape.

Kris stumbled out to the nerve center, to the hum of the computers, the snores of the rest of the team, the soft murmurs of the radio. Dari and Arabic floated through the static, live captures of the Taliban’s radio net. Kris picked out the words forappleandpomegranate,riceandgoat.Hungerandcold. The enemy was struggling, hungry, cold, and lonely, talking into the night about what they wanted to eat.

Eat an airplane, Kris thought.Eat an airplane, dropping bombs until you’re full. Until you’re so full you explode. Until you’re one of three thousand, a name that can’t be remembered because there are too many.

He tried to breathe, tried to stop the shaking that came over him, crawling up from the bottoms of his feet, all the way up his skin. He hadn’t felt this before, hadn’t yet run face-first into the same furious, crackling rage the rest of his team nurtured. He hadn’t joined in on the calls for revenge, the bloodthirsty hunger for retribution against al-Qaeda, against the Taliban. He’d kept the blame forhimself.

“Kris?” David yawned as he slipped out from behind the curtain to their room. “You okay?”

Fury roared through him. Blinding, aching fury. His bones seemed to scream, his skeleton shaking, burning to every last inch.

“Kris?” David was right there, reaching for him. His hands landed on Kris’s arms, gently.

Kris jerked free. “Stop!” he hissed. “Just stop!”

David stepped back, hands up, surrendering. His eyes glistened, pools of silver in the flash of the radio lights. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t help me! You shouldn’t care about me! You shouldn’t do any of this!” Kris waved back to their room, to David, trying to wrap everything David had done, all that he was, up as one. “I amnot worthanything!”

“What?”

“I am not worthone momentof what you’ve given me! Not a single moment! Your care, your concern, your coffee? Stop wasting your time on me!”

“Kris…” David slowly inched forward, his voice a whisper. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because—” His heart screamed, the same pitch, the same tone as the planes that had flown over Manhattan, that had slammed into the Pentagon and Pennsylvania. Ash coated his throat, and in his hands, he felt the dust of thousands upon thousands of bones sift through his fingers. “BecauseIam responsible for nine-eleven!”

David froze. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“My section, my unit! We were tracking Khalid al-Mihdhar and Marwan al-Shehhi. We had them on our radar. The FBI, earlier this year, they asked for what we had on them! We refused to share the intel. We knew they were al-Qaeda. We knew they were connected to the embassy bombings in Africa. We were tracing their connections, their meet-ups with other al-Qaeda operatives. Money that was exchanged. But we wouldn’t share what we had! The higher-ups, they thought the FBI would fuck it up! We wanted to see how much higher we could go through the chain. Didn’t want to risk blowing our intelligence if the FBI just arrested them! But no one knew, no one fucking knew, when they needed to know! To stop what happened!”

“Kris, what—”

“Their names were onmydesk!Mine! If I had just passed those names along, if the FBI would have alerted someone, anyone, about those two… American Airlines Flight 77 and United Airlines Flight 175 wouldn’t have slammed into the Pentagon and the South Tower!”

“You don’t know that. You can’t say that—” David sputtered, shaking his head.

“They would have been detained when they entered the US! Questioned. They wouldn’t have been on those flights. Maybe al-Qaeda would have had to call the entire operation off! Maybe they would have had to cancel it! If they’d had to cancel it, then Ahmad Shah Massoud would still be alive. Bin Laden wouldn’t have had to murder him! Everything, all of this! It’s my fault! BecauseIdidn’t—”

His voice cracked, and Kris collapsed, the bones in his body no longer able to hold him up, keep him standing under the weight of three thousand dead souls, under the years of unlived lives, under the shame that grated his heart to slivers, to dust, to ash. He fell to his knees, curled over, and pressed his forehead to the dirty floor, to the threadbare carpet covering the cold concrete.

He couldn’t breathe. He gasped, his throat closing, choking off like he was being strangled. Tears flowed, cascading down his cheeks, falling from his chin into pools beneath his face. Snot and spit dribbled from his nose, his mouth. He was disgusting. A disgusting human being.

A hand rested on his back, gentle, warm. Another landed on his head, fingers sliding through his hair. The hand guided him up, cradled his head until he was sitting, staring into David’s stern face.

Kris waited for David to snap his neck, to rip him in half. To end everything.

“It wasnotyour fault,” David breathed. His voice, a whisper, shook. His eyes burned, slamming into Kris like brands. “It wasnotyour fault. You didnothijack those planes. You didnotfly them into the Towers, into the Pentagon. You didnot dothis.”

“I let it happen…”

David gripped his skull, pulled Kris closer. His hands shook, his arms, and Kris trembled with him. Kris’s teeth started to chatter. “Do not take on this blame. You are not them. You are not a murderer. You are not part of their hate. You are not to blame.”

“I am…”