Heather’s focus remained on the teen. He’d managed to pull the explosive partway off, the duct tape loosening, some of it tearing. He held it out to the right side of his body, and for a moment she thought he might succeed, let go of it, and run.

But the explosion rocked him, lifted him, then dropped him onto his back on the hard-packed dirt. Heather screamed. She raced toward him, pulling gloves from her pocket, hearing others yelling at her to get back, that there might be a second bomb, but she couldn’t leave him like that. She dropped to her knees next to him. His right arm was gone, his right side a mangled mess. Blood pumped from the shoulder where his arm should be attached, and she clamped a hand over it.

“Hold on,” she yelled at him. “Hold on.” He was conscious, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re going to be fine. What’s your name?”

“Abdul,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I—”

And closed his eyes.

Heather looked back over her shoulder. “Someone get over here and help me!”

Another doctor raced from the tent and time blurred as Heather went to work on the boy who couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. “Please hold on.”

She was acutely aware of the others arriving to help transfer him to a portable stretcher and then to the OR. She raced alongside him, keeping her hands clamped around his open wound. And finally, they were in the operating room. Minutes turned into hours as they tried to put the boy back together. Another doctor worked to reattach his arm. Heather did her best with his torso. She pulled the last stitch and sucked in a breath.

“That’s it,” she said. “Now, we wait.”

Two hours later, in recovery, Heather dozed in the chair next to his bed.

The alarms on the monitor woke her. His heart had stopped.

Feverishly, she pumped his chest. “Please, please, please, don’t give up. You asked me to help you and I will, but you have to live.” More pumping. Sweat rolled from her in waves.

She had no idea how long she worked until Gina, her nurse, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Heather . . .”

Heather stopped, heard the flatline—and knew it was over. They’d lost him.

She let out a low cry and swung away from him, stripped off her gloves, and darted out the door. The sun was setting, turning the sky all kinds of beautiful colors. But she didn’t want to see beauty when she was surrounded by death. Not tonight.

Heather paced near the trash heap, working hard to get her emotions under control. She wanted to weep, to scream, to lash out at the evil that had overtaken this country, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.