end. My heart pounded as I approached the small cluster of nurses. Huddled at the end of a patient’s bed, the group of women in white aprons and pink button-up dresses whispered amongst themselves and avoided the gaze of the fuming lead nurse in front of them.
Maria yanked the wool blanket off the patient beside her and threw it onto the linoleum floor. “Who admitted this man? He shouldn’t be here.”
I rose on my tiptoes, struggling to get a glimpse of the patient. A Naseeri Arab man. Uncovered, he shivered and curled two bony fingers around a handful of bed sheet. His threadbare clothes hung off his shriveled body, and—visible between the tears in his shirt—his ribs jutted out from underneath gaunt, sun-scorched skin.
“If King Basil learns …show more content…
No one had ever asked me that before. “I’m a nurse. It’s my job.”
“You’re… a Mahtali, aren’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “What’s your name?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Petra.”
His eyes widened a little. Did he recognize my name? “Petra, you’re… the only Mahtali I’ve met… who cares.” He winced as he changed his position in the bed, and I repositioned the pillow behind his head. “You would rather... keep me alive than let me die.”
I couldn’t meet his piercing gaze. “I’m sorry. This war is—we’ve caused so… so much suffering. Your people...” I paused, uncertain how to continue. How could I possibly understand what this man had gone through? I knew nothing of starvation. When was the last time I had worn something dirty, let alone torn? No matter how much remorse flowed in my blood, I could never empathize with his hardships.
“You mean,” the man said, “the suffering…your father has caused, princess.”
He did recognize me. I fidgeted in my seat, and a sharp pain shot through my arms and chest. “Yes, that’s what I mean.” My father’s unequal rationing policies were to blame for this man’s anguish. I looked down and pulled at my sleeves, wanting to run away.
He reached over and placed one small, wrinkled hand on my own. “ It’s… not your
Maria yanked the wool blanket off the patient beside her and threw it onto the linoleum floor. “Who admitted this man? He shouldn’t be here.”
I rose on my tiptoes, struggling to get a glimpse of the patient. A Naseeri Arab man. Uncovered, he shivered and curled two bony fingers around a handful of bed sheet. His threadbare clothes hung off his shriveled body, and—visible between the tears in his shirt—his ribs jutted out from underneath gaunt, sun-scorched skin.
“If King Basil learns …show more content…
No one had ever asked me that before. “I’m a nurse. It’s my job.”
“You’re… a Mahtali, aren’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “What’s your name?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Petra.”
His eyes widened a little. Did he recognize my name? “Petra, you’re… the only Mahtali I’ve met… who cares.” He winced as he changed his position in the bed, and I repositioned the pillow behind his head. “You would rather... keep me alive than let me die.”
I couldn’t meet his piercing gaze. “I’m sorry. This war is—we’ve caused so… so much suffering. Your people...” I paused, uncertain how to continue. How could I possibly understand what this man had gone through? I knew nothing of starvation. When was the last time I had worn something dirty, let alone torn? No matter how much remorse flowed in my blood, I could never empathize with his hardships.
“You mean,” the man said, “the suffering…your father has caused, princess.”
He did recognize me. I fidgeted in my seat, and a sharp pain shot through my arms and chest. “Yes, that’s what I mean.” My father’s unequal rationing policies were to blame for this man’s anguish. I looked down and pulled at my sleeves, wanting to run away.
He reached over and placed one small, wrinkled hand on my own. “ It’s… not your