Moving as little as I could, I looked toward our designated toilet area. He must be there. I couldn’t see him, but where else could he be? Bad timing. I squinted, trying to pick him out, not knowing whether to be glad or afraid because I couldn’t. After all, if I could see him, so could other people.
The shooting went on and on while we lay still and quiet and scared. One of the trees we’d camped under was hit twice, but well above our heads.
Then the truck exploded. I don’t know what exploded in it. It hadn’t looked like an old truck— one of those that used diesel fuel, but it might have been. Would diesel fuel explode? I didn’t know.
The explosion seemed to end the gunfight. A few more shots were exchanged, then nothing. I saw people, visible in the firelight, walking back toward the truck. Sometime later, I saw others— several together in a bunch— moving away toward the town.
Both groups were moving away from us, and that was good.
Now. Where was Bankole? In as low a voice as I could manage, I spoke to the others. “Can anyone see Bankole?”
No answer.
“Zahra, did you see him go?”
“Yeah, a couple of minutes before the shooting started,” she answered.
All right. If he didn’t come out soon, we would have to go looking for him. I swallowed, tried not to think about finding him hurt or dead. “Is everyone else all right?” I asked. “Zahra?”
“I’m fine.”
“Harry?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.”
“Travis? Natividad?”
“We’re all right,” Travis said.
“What about Dominic?”
“Didn’t even wake up.”
That was good. If he had, his crying could have gotten us killed. “Allie? Jill?”
“We’re okay,” Allie said.
I sat up, keeping my movements slow and cautious.
I couldn’t see anyone or hear anything beyond insects and the distant fire. When no one shot me, others sat up too. Where noise and light had not
awakened Dominic, his mother’s movement did the trick. He awoke and began to whimper, but Natividad held him and he quieted.
But still no Bankole. I wanted to get up and go looking for him. I had two mental images of him: One of him lying wounded or dead, and one of him crouching behind a tree holding his own Beretta nine millimeter. If the latter was true, I could scare him into shooting me. There might also be other people out there with ready guns and frayed nerves.
“What time is it?” I asked Zahra who had Harry’s watch.
“Three forty,” she said.
“Let me have the gun,” I said. “Your watch is almost over anyway.”
“What about Bankole?” She passed both the watch and the gun over.”
“If he isn’t back in five minutes I’m going to go look for him.”
“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “You aren’t going to do that by yourself. I’ll go with you.”
I almost said no. I don’t think he would have paid any attention if I had, but I never spoke the word. If Bankole were injured and conscious, I would be useless the moment I saw him. I would be lucky to drag myself back to camp. Someone else would have to drag him back.
“Thank you,” I said to Harry.
Five minutes later, he and I went first to the toilet area, then around it, searching. There was no one, or rather, we could see no one. Still, there might be other people around— others camping overnight, others involved in the shooting, others prowling… .
Still, I called Bankole’s name once, aloud. I touched Harry as a kind of warning and he jumped, settled, then jumped again as I said the name. We both listened in absolute silence.
There was a rustling off to our right where there were several trees blotting out the stars, creating a space of impenetrable darkness. Anything could be there.
The rustling came again, and with it a whimper— a child’s whimper. Then Bankole’s voice: “Olamina!”
“Yes,” I answered, almost limp with relief. “Here!”
He came out of the pool of darkness, a tall, broad shadow that seemed bulkier than it should have been. He was carrying something.
“I have an orphaned child,” he said. “The mother was hit by a stray bullet. She just died.”
I sighed. “Is the child hurt?”
“No, just scared. I’ll carry him back to our camp. Will one of you get his things?”
“Take us to his camp,” I said.
