twisted branches he bundled and delivered as kindling from the bazaar.
Take what you can in the gurneys! shouted a paramedic. Carry the rest!
Hurry, there are more still in the bazaar! shouted another.
We unloaded bodies onto the gurneys. Soon we pulled off the sheets. It was easier to clean the slickness from the plain rubber mattresses. When we ran out of gurneys we heaved bodies onto our shoulders and carried them to the operating room. The ambulance sped away. The old nurse grasped my arm again. His sad eyes fell toward the ground and rested on a large man whose clothes had been burned from him. He rolled the man to his back. It was Rafi Jan. The only part of him I recognized was the fatness I once despised and his singed beard. He was too far gone to notice me. Either the old nurse didn’t see the shock on my face or didn’t care. He lifted Rafi Jan onto my shoulders. Against my neck Rafi Jan’s burned skin felt like the curled bark of a tree. I expected him to scream but he was silent. He wasn’t yet dead, but he’d already crossed over. I’d once wished badal against this fat man who’d laughed at me. Knowing this, I felt both guilt and, it shames me to say, satisfaction.
Some of the wounded cried out, most did not. Many looked at their broken bodies with curiosity, as if in a new suffering existed a chance to escape the old one. The last ambulance returned with only two men. I recognized neither. We brought them inside. Outside the hospital fell quiet.
My brother arrived in the back of a cheap binjo. His waist was wet and red. A sheet covered an emptiness where his left leg would have been. He grasped a slick trash bag, his knuckles white with effort. In it was the leg. His cheeks looked like green ash and his eyes swam about his face. Tears poured over his temples.
He saw me and propped himself up on his elbows. His body failed him and he lay back down. He stared at nothing, looking past, but not at me. We loaded him onto a gurney. I moved to whisper in his ear, but found myself with nothing to say. I hung my head close to his.
Zakat for my poor brother the cripple, he whispered. Zakat, zakat, zakat . . .
No, no, I assured him. There are many who walk again.
His eyes rolled. He breathed, panting.
There is more gone, he said.
The old nurse pushed the gurney inside. I ran next to it.
Let me tell you what I learned today, I said. The imam explained algebra.
I put my hand on Ali’s head. The sweat in his hair was cool and slick. He looked away, saying nothing. I continued: It comes from the ancient Arabs. In their language it means to make whole from parts.
It is enough, Ali said.
He shut his eyes. The moustached doctor, the one with the young face, stood outside the operating room. He held up his arm. No further, he said. They rolled Ali past. I sat in the hallway against the wall. I could hear only the squeak of a loose metal axle. The old nurse wheeled a steel mop and bucket down the far end of the corridor. Dark red blood pools stained the linoleum. The mop slopped down. Water leaked from its braids. The old nurse swayed back and forth, spreading the dark red into light. I brought my knees to my chest and rested my head between my arms.
I fell asleep.
–
Hours later, I woke up in the hallway. It was morning. I searched for my brother. The room where he’d been wheeled was now full of empty beds and shining trays of surgical equipment. The night before felt like a tear in my memory. I left the room and wandered the corridors. I didn’t recognize any of the doctors or nurses. At the far end of the main corridor, away from the double doors, was a steel desk. Behind it, hunched over his work, sat a small man with sharp shoulders and a cratered face. His oily hair was neatly parted. It gleamed even in the dimness. I placed my palms on his desk.
My brother was brought here last night, I said. I can’t find him.
His name and injury? asked the man.
Ali Iqtbal, I said. He lost his leg.
My