Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,17

stitches on Gabriel’s neck. Stitches he really didn’t even want to imagine.

“You must realize, my friend, how lucky you are,” the short doctor clucked at Gabriel. “It is truly a miracle you are still here. And you have such a good friend, this man who flew here all the way from the Americas when he heard what happened.”

Alejo was crying. He was trying to pretend it was just a piece of dust he had to scrub from one eye, but the ruse wasn’t working very well. Gabriel felt his face spread into a grin. A very sad-looking, lopsided grin, but a happy one nonetheless.

“Allah has chosen you, my friend,” the doctor patted Gabriel on the shoulder. “You must never forget it. Your life belongs to him now.”

That was supposed to be comforting, wasn’t it? But Gabriel felt the smile drain from his lips.

What if he messed up?

Allah had saved him by a miracle.

And Gabriel knew how it worked. Now he had to pay Allah back.

6

emerald

Coroico, Bolivia

WARA SHIFTED POSITIONS AGAINST THE WORN gray upholstery of the minibus, managing to win an extra half-inch or so for her left leg. She hooked one dusty Converse tennis shoe through the straps of her purple backpack, a habit she had developed to be able to drift off to sleep while traveling without the possibility of someone sneaking off with her bag. Nazaret was fast asleep next to her, blond curls plastered to Wara’s shoulder. On Wara’s other side, through the window, soaring peaks of emerald contrasted with sheer drop-offs, mere inches from the edge of the dirt-caked road.

Nazaret and Wara were on their way to Coroico, sleepy tropical tourist town in the mountains, for a four-day weekend vacation. This was the first time Pastor Martir had let his daughter go away for so long, even though Nazaret was the same age as Wara, twenty-seven. Latino fathers tended to be extra-protective of their daughters, more so than American dads. The Bennesons from Wara’s mission had let her take some time off from helping at the AIDS center, and her literacy classes for Quechua women were only twice a week anyway.

As the distance between Wara and Cochabamba grew, she allowed herself to think of that disastrous night she’d been trying to forget for the past month: the electric blue glow of Café Paris, several drinks too many, kissing Noah next to the bar. Even now, Wara felt her cheeks flame at the memory of that really ill-advised kiss.

In the plaza outside the café that night, while still feeling the effects of the alcohol, Wara had felt crushed with the realization that Noah would never be able to love her. A dilemma that never would have bothered her before.

But since sobering up, Wara found that her feelings of dismay over the situation with Noah hadn’t changed. Of course, she felt ridiculous for having embarrassed herself in front of him. But it was more than that. That night she had seen how Noah still looked at her with kindness after that stupid moment in the bar. She knew, now, that she really did love him.

At least it felt that way.

Wara closed her eyes against the smooth glass, heart sinking all the way down to her toes.

But he could never love me.

A jolt from underneath the minibus began at the flimsy metal seat and rode up Wara’s spine, rattling her cheek against the glass. She opened her eyes and felt the bus brake solidly, pebbles exploding along the pavement. The rear end of the vehicle fishtailed towards the sheer cliff at the edge of the road. Soft shrieks and muted curses rose from the other bus passengers, and Wara’s heart flew to her throat as Nazaret jerked wide awake.

A skidding bus anywhere near the edge of this mountain road was ample cause for alarm. The road that led down from La Paz to Coroico was no ordinary road; it was booked in most tour guides as the Road of Death, the most dangerous road in the world. Cut at unbelievable angles into the emerald heart of the Andes, the road boasted drop-offs of 1800 feet at some points.

Nazaret gasped loudly at Wara’s side, clutching her little rolling suitcase covered in pink poodles and Eiffel Towers. Then the minibus drew to a halt, engulfed in a fine mist of pewter-colored dirt. They were still on the road, but Wara’s knees were shaking.

Five seconds later, the dust glided away, leaving the bus passengers a view of metal debris and a gutted,