“I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I thought you were someone else.”
“The Da’esh?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “There was a corner in my cell where they couldn’t see me. I would practice attacking from that spot, over and over again. One day I surprised the guard and broke out, but I didn’t get far.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“They caught me and beat me unconscious. I couldn’t move for a few days. After that they stopped coming in my cell. The beatings stopped. Everything stopped. No one came to kick me or spit on me or wake me up at all hours. They pushed a food tray through a slot in the door. That was it.”
Her chest constricted with sorrow. She wanted to reach out to him, but she thought he might rebuff her, like Ashur often did. “I’m sorry.”
He started putting on his boots, his jaw clenched.
“The bruises on your side were from the last beating?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. A month.”
“I should check your sutures.”
“They’re fine,” he said, tying his laces tight. “I’m fine.”
She watched him leave the tent. He wasn’t fine. No one could be fine after months of captivity. He was a strong man, mentally and physically, but he needed time to recover. She felt guilty about forcing him into this grueling journey. She grabbed a blanket to cuddle with, but she didn’t sleep. She was worried about him. He’d hardly spoken to her since that kiss at the summit. Something had changed between them, and she wasn’t sure what.
Did he regret telling her that he wanted her?
Getting involved was a bad idea for both of them. She assumed it was against the rules for a SEAL to have any kind of relationship with a refugee. He seemed irritated with himself for showing emotion, or revealing his desire. He was clearly angry with her for keeping him in the dark about their exact location. He was suffering from post-traumatic stress. He’d been distant while the others celebrated.
She didn’t blame him for withdrawing. She couldn’t have a torrid affair with an American, anyway. They were from two different worlds. He’d go back to his. If she wasn’t careful, he’d break her heart before he left.
The sun rose over the mountains and they ate venison stew for breakfast. Hudson’s dark mood hadn’t affected his appetite. Ashur sat down next to Layah with his stew. She still had mixed feelings about Ashur handling guns, and she hadn’t reacted well to the sight of him covered in blood last night. Now that she’d calmed down, she couldn’t begrudge his accomplishment.
He looked taller today, and so much like Hasan her chest ached. She resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.
“You know what I thought when you were born?” she asked.
“What?”
“I thought you were perfect. You had a crumpled-up face like a little old man. You cried so loud, and you held my finger so tight. I knew you would grow up strong and healthy. I thought, when I have a son, I want him to be just like this.”
He swallowed a bite of stew, giving her a skeptical look. When she’d come to collect him in Syria, she’d been numb with grief, not overjoyed to see him. They’d staggered along together, from one war-torn country to another. They hadn’t spoken about permanent placement for him. She’d been focused on survival and escape, not parenting.
“I imagined having a baby of my own one day. I never imagined that I would become your guardian.”
“You don’t have to be. I can take care of myself.”
“You’re not an adult.”
“I’m not a child, either.”
“Your father would want me to watch over you. So would your mother.”
He said nothing.
“I know I can’t compare to them. They had thirteen years to learn how to raise you. I will never be what they were.”
Ashur made a grunting sound. “You’re okay.”
She looked away, uncertain. It was difficult to reconcile her girlhood dreams with the crushing reality of the current situation. Instead of Khalil’s child, she’d been given a surly teenager. Ashur had her instead of two loving, experienced parents.
“When we get to Yerevan—”
“I don’t even speak the language,” he interrupted.
“I’ll teach you.”
“You don’t speak it.”
“I can get by. We’ll learn together.”
His brow furrowed at this claim, as if he didn’t believe she’d stay there with him. Her parents had fled to Yerevan two years ago. Her cousins planned to settle with their wives in a nearby Assyrian community and look for work. Layah hadn’t made any decisions beyond this journey. Since Khalil’s death, she couldn’t bear to think too far into the future.
After breakfast, they said goodbye to Nadir and his family, who were heading west to reunite with relatives. Yusef gave Nadir his rifle before they parted ways. Layah offered him one of the tents, which he accepted. Then they continued east as a party of nine.
The route to the Yazidi village followed a steady downhill slope. It was the easiest trek of the journey, and quite picturesque. This side of the Zagros was all green meadows and rolling hills, with a spectacular mountain backdrop. She’d been surrounded by deserts her entire life, and they were majestic, but the rugged beauty of the skyline took her breath away.
It was a struggle to keep moving, nonetheless. She’d been pushed past her limits and she felt it in every step. She never wanted to hike again. Her muscles ached from overuse. She hated her pack and everything inside it. The lovely spring day was too warm, the sun too bright, the birds too cheery, the flowers too fragrant.
They stopped at noon to rest beneath a tree. Its branches were heavy with small green fruits.
“What are those?” Hudson asked.
“Sour plums,” she said. “We can eat them.”
He picked several handfuls, which they washed and shared. It was an acquired taste. Layah enjoyed the tart flavor, but Hudson grimaced at the first bite. He managed to chew and swallow, with some difficulty.
“We finally found a food he doesn’t like,” Ashur said. When he repeated it
