“Yeah. This might just be the catalyst I need to make that career change.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.”
Tom shrugged. “All right then, why not?”
SEPTEMBER
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
Dr. Heather Fontaine headed to the surgery recovery ward. The huge tents that made up the hospital might look rough and ancient on the outside, but the inside held state-of-the-art equipment for those needing it. And so many did. Afghani civilians and American soldiers, both.
She and one of the nurses, Gina Wicks, and two other friends from the hospital, had just returned from three days of sandboarding in the Bamyan Mountains and she felt like she’d been gone forever. She might not like to run or visit the gym, but she loved to sandboard in the hotter months and ski in the colder ones. There was nothing like the feel of the wind in her face and that peace-filled stretch of time from the top of the mountain to the bottom. It was a stress reliever like no other. With the Bamyan Mountains located about three hours from Kabul and considered a relatively safe adventure, it had been a no-brainer to head there when they’d had the time off.
She’d enjoyed being with her friends and knew she needed the mental break, but her patients weighed on her mind and in her heart the entire time she’d been away. Not that the other doctors weren’t perfectly capable of caring for them, but . . .
Instead of going to her quarters, she’d asked the others to allow her to stop at the hospital first to check on her patients. She could walk from there. Gina had simply fallen into step beside her, and Heather figured the woman was as concerned as she. Moments ago, Gina had disappeared into the recovery tent while Heather stopped to discuss a patient with a fellow physician.
“Glad you’re back, Heather,” he said. “It’s too quiet around here without you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
He laughed. “Can I grab you a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.” He darted toward the cafeteria.
Movement in the distance stalled her. She stood between the tents—to her left was the operating suite, to her right the recovery area. She tried to get a better view of the approaching figure and noted he’d caught the attention of several others.
He trudged toward them, head down, T-shirt two sizes too big and flapping around his thin frame. He passed two of the Humvees, walked between two more tents, and headed for the recovery ward.
Certainty settled in her gut. “No,” she whispered. “No!” The closer he got, the more she knew. She ran toward him, not thinking of herself. “Please! No!”
He stopped and locked eyes with her. She could see his desperation even at this distance. For a moment, he stayed frozen, half a football field between them. Then he ripped the shirt off and Heather saw the bomb strapped to his chest. “Help me!” He grabbed at the bomb, struggled with it, trying to rip it from his body while Heather stood frozen for a split second.
“No! Stop!” she yelled. “Don’t come any closer! Bomb!”
Heads popped out from the tents.
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