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“How’s the game?” Nurse Edward asked. “Are the Mets winning?” He made a joke. I held out my arm. I had done this so many times that it was all rote now. Edward put on his gloves; placed a tourniquet around my right forearm; prepped the vein, tapping it with his fingers; and bent down to insert the needle. But as the needle punctured my skin, I jumped up violently and in one quick motion slapped the needle out of his hand, sending blood spurting out of my vein. I smiled, looking down in mock sheepishness, as if to say, sarcastically, “Oops, what have I done?” It was obvious to Stephen that I meant, “Fuck off.” Sometimes when I seemed to be doing better, the original psychosis would return. This frightened everyone. The next morning, a man volunteered to row the children upstream along the River Drina to a small town,?epa, where an organized hospital was rumored to exist. Their father agreed. After the injured left, Ilijaz and the nurse sat for a moment to process what had happened. In spite of Ilijaz’s long history of squeamishness, the blood and torn flesh hadn’t bothered him much. What disturbed him more was the terrible sense of helplessness he felt, and the realization that the girl would probably not be his last war-injured patient, or his worst. Without knowledge, without colleagues or books to consult, without supplies and equipment, what would he be able to do? Ilijaz wrote a letter on a tiny piece of paper to tell her he, too, was alive. Please send an answer, he wrote, so he could be sure that she was OK. He bumped along the pitted road, sandwiched between ruined buildings perforated by thousands of bullets, ripped by shells. Empty window frames jutted at strange angles, an occasional curl of smoke the only movement inside, an occasional red glow of fire the only color. Gray, broken trees leaned over the road, branches splayed at odd angles, their few dead leaves unsettled by the breeze. Dog and pig carcasses littered the ground next to cars flattened by tanks.

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