I listened to the movement of boots, the thud of thick soles on fine carpets. I heard orders barked and loud grunts of exertion. I dared not peek. I only looked down at the darkened carpet beneath my feet and waited for the stench of my urine to lead the soldiers to me.

They moved up and down the length of the hall, going in and out of rooms. I closed my eyes tight, though what I saw with my eyes shut was more terrifying than what I saw when I kept them open.

Footsteps entered the library slowly. I heard a man’s breathing, the sharp intake of air through flared nostrils. I was working up the nerve to smash my elbow into the window and take my chances leaping to the ground when the curtain snapped back. I found myself face to face with a soldier—or, more precisely, the unblinking eye of a Kalashnikov. I closed my eyes shut and quaked.

I do not know how much time passed this way, with my existence dependent on one finger curled against a trigger.

At some point, I opened my eyes.

The rifle’s tip quavered but stayed trained on me. I dared to look past the barrel to the trembling arms that held it up. I saw a man, panting, his red-rimmed eyes bulging. He looked over his shoulder and back at me.

He wiped his palm on the thigh of his pants.

“You must go!” he hissed, nudging my arm with the rifle’s barrel. I jolted when the warm metal touched my skin. “Go!”

He wiped the sweat from his brow.

I whispered a prayer, looking past him at the emptied bedroom across the hall. My eyes fell to the darkened floor.

“I want to be with them.”

The soldier went to the doorway, looked down the hall, and then returned to me. He grabbed my arm and walked me out of the library with the end of his rifle pressed between my shoulder blades.

I walked, not daring to look at him.

I heard footsteps and the murmur of voices coming from the direction of the president’s quarters.

Neelab? I forced my best friend out of my thoughts and focused on taking quiet steps.

“You can’t hide. There’s nowhere to go,” he said, his breath hot and rancid in my ear.

Would he let me hide?

Beneath the hallway table. In the kitchen cabinets with the gallons of cooking oil. In the bathroom with the painting of the bird on its wall. Behind the bar in the banquet room. All my ideas were terrible.

Then I remembered the basement.

My pace quickened.

“Where?” he asked.

I made my way to the narrow staircase that led to the kitchen. I stepped carefully and the soldier followed.

Judging by the opening and shutting of cabinets and drawers, there were at least two men in the kitchen.