Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff
ground. He seemed impervious to discomfort, but he’d been trained for extremes. She couldn’t imagine the conditions he’d endured in the torture cell.
He didn’t ask any more questions. She unzipped the front flap and looked out. Aram was awake, keeping watch as dawn broke over the horizon. She could see her breath in the cold air. Before she left the tent, she grabbed her wool poncho.
It was still difficult to speak of Khalil, to dream of him and remember him. She’d loved him so much. After his death, she’d buried herself in work at the hospital in Damascus. They’d needed all the help they could get. The day of the air strikes, she’d stayed on duty for forty-eight hours. She’d seen things she could not bear. And, like many medical professionals before her, she’d fled the carnage and never returned.
She’d walked to Jordan. She’d worked in a tea house to pay for room and board. The weeks had passed in a blur of nothingness. Then she’d received the devastating news about her brother and his wife. She’d picked up the broken pieces of herself and returned to Syria, for Ashur’s sake. She’d planned to bring him back to Jordan, but the roads had become impassible. They could travel only one direction, toward their ravaged homeland.
She pushed aside the memories and collected water for breakfast. Hudson thought the refugees were ill-equipped for this journey, and they were. But they wouldn’t give up. Everyone here had a story of hardship and loss. A lifetime of diaspora. They were all seasoned warriors, the same as him.
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