Impossible Odds

light, just to make it plain I wasn’t trying to hide or run off.
    Then I was alone out there in the bushes, and everything was peaceful and very quiet. I couldn’t hear a thing but an occasional skittering leaf moving on a breeze. Small sounds, just here and there, barely enough to perceive at all. Maybe those sounds were out there all the time, and I just never noticed them before:nocturnal movements of tiny life forms in the tropical scrub desert. All were somehow closer on this night. I wondered, had this pitch blackness forced my ears to work harder, like those of a blind person?
    The darkness itself felt protective, as if it was inviting me to slip away into it and disappear, bound for any destination far from this place. And then, perhaps because of the unusual factors of the sleeping guards and the dark moon and the overcast sky, I imagined making my way over to Poul and rousting him. Come on, while they’re all out cold!
    I suddenly felt convinced we could vanish together in darkness like this. If I could just shake this fever. We could hoof it out of here. I could stand the pain. I’m ready to try, anyway.
    We might get lucky, if we just made a break for it and stayed away from people and made our way on foot. We could power though it and avoid people entirely and just keep going until we crossed the Green Line and could appeal to someone for help.
    There were watering holes out there, once used for livestock back when there were herds. We might have to walk a hundred miles, maybe more, I thought. Could a person walk a hundred miles without food? Could I? Could I do that even if we found water along the way? Could I do it in my current condition, when just standing up felt like taking a stabbing? Stick close to the bushes while we run. Hunt for small game, eat it raw.
    I was ready to believe we would be protected in the inky black. I told myself the plan could work. As long as sunrise never came and the inkjet darkness cloaked us, it could absolutely work. All we needed to do was freeze time for a few days while we effected a clean getaway.
    With that, the images left me. I was glad for them to go. Entertaining fantasies about unreal escapes did nothing but sharpen all those jagged feelings of isolation.
    There was some physical relief when I was finished, but thepain stayed in my lower abdomen. Escape? Oh, yeah. We might have made it a few hundred yards.
    I padded back to the sleeping mat, avoiding the inert guards. I got a glimpse of Dahir a few feet from the bottom of my mat. He was usually responsive to me when Jabreel wasn’t around. He also tended to be far less in the grip of khat than the other men. It was hard to see him included in this goofy party.
    Dahir was probably in his early forties, well-groomed, and a trusted driver for the group. His green Land Cruiser brought regular shipments of those humble supplies that were allowed to us. It was surreal that he had included himself in this first-ever group sleepover. I hated to see him get down on their level. Among that unhappy lineup of men, Dahir was a good man by comparison.
    Dahir, the Helper, spoke a little English, and indicated he was married with eight, yes eight, children plus his own house, somewhere nearby. For some reason, Dahir was finding it difficult to support a household of at least ten people in a broken society. I suppose that’s what put him there.
    He always seemed to have a conscience about things and never mistreated me. If he was supposed to make me do something, he was respectful about it. I liked having his sympathetic presence around, and he seemed happy to remain right at my side whenever he was on duty.
    Unlike Jabreel, Dahir was shy and restrained in his manners, and his behavior was never improper. He prayed five times a day, something Jabreel also did, though Helper appeared to be trying to live by his faith, as long as you set aside the little bits about kidnapping, sick prisoners, and withholding necessary medicine.
    Dahir the Helper was what passed for a friend in this dark place, where it was so black at night and somehow just as dark with the sun shining. All he did was drive the car and deliver the supplies, so I suppose he mentally divorced himself from sharing guilt over the rest of it.
    He was a living portrait of how a good-hearted man of peace conducts himself when carrying out terrible actions for an evil design. He tries to be nice about it.
    I lay down on my side and curled into a ball for warmth,