YOU DON'T MOVE FROM AHMAD'S BODY FOR A LONG time. You don't even let go of his hands Pressing them to my lips, you try to will life into him again. The background noises are muted in my ears. All you hear, stuck on repeat like a broken cassette: I will tell God everything

A hand taps on your back. I ignore it. You don't even hear what the person is saying

"Hey!" The tapping increases and borders on annoying you're grieving a boy you never knew, but who you let down

"What?" you snap, turning around.

It's a boy your age or older. He's panting and shaking. His hands can't keep steady, they're running over his face and tawny curls; his green eyes are wild. He looks familiar and it takes you a second to realize it's the boy from yesterday, who was carrying a little girl in his arms.

"Please... please! You have to help me." He jumps over his words, shoulders trembling.

you jump to your feet. "Yes? What happened?"

"My sister-please she came in yesterday because of the bomb-there was shrapnel in her stomach-it was taken out-we took her home-hospital said there's no space-they said she'd be okay-please-just-" he stammers, unable to keep up with the pace of his words from pure terror. He shakes his head. "No. With the hospital overstretched like this, I understand how it could happen. At least it's one piece."

"How old is she?" you ask.

"Nine."

Dammit. Likely starved and highly vulnerable to infection.

"We have to hurry."

He picks up the pace, and you follow him through the old alleys of our torn-up city. A few people are out, either deep in conversation or waiting in line at the bakery.

"I'm Kenan," he says suddenly, and you turn toward him, distracted.

"What?"

"Kenan," he repeats, and manages a small smile.

Note: I Totally copied the script from the book "As long as the Lemon trees grow". All the credits goes to Zoulfa Katouh the author of this book