As much as she wanted to tell herself that her reaction came from years of abstinence, she knew better. Samir Al-Shennawi, the quietly reserved chemistry teacher, was kissing her socks off with a confidence and expertise that had her toes curling.
“Annie,” he said against her mouth, his broad hands cradling her face. “We need to stop this, dear.”
A cold splash of reality washed over her. Good God, this wasn’t the time or the place… She sagged back against the shelves of boxed school supplies. “I don’t know what I was thinking…”
“Shhh… I don’t mean that at all.” He tucked his shirt in quickly. Had she done that? “Someone’s coming.”
Oh. Damn. She smoothed her hands over her loose muslin pant suit, dimly registering voices swelling louder through the halls, along with the echo of racing footsteps.
“Annie?” a voice called. The school secretary, Veronique, had left her homeland of France for this job, to help in her mother’s old hometown. “Annie, Mr. Gueye and I need your help…”
Annie stepped out of the nook, leaving Samir behind her as she fast-tracked down the hall. Hopefully he would take the hint and stay behind rather than stir gossip.
Veronique ran to meet her, unlike the normally collected secretary who fielded childish antics without a wince. “On the television,” she gasped, looking every one of her seventy-plus years at the moment, “there’s some kind of disruption in Mogadishu. A riot or something at the airport, and the children are terrified. Your class needs you.”
Her racing heart stopped for a beat before picking up again. Of course the kids were petrified. Most of them had witnessed war. Some had even seen their own families gunned down.
A firm hand settled on her shoulder, slowing her. She looked back at Samir, his onyx eyes sharp, focused. “What’s happening?”
Annie shook her head. “Veronique?”
“I’m not sure of the details. Once the plane landed, explosions started. The news people were running for cover.” Veronique took her elbow and guided her back toward the cafeteria, obviously too distracted to even question why Samir was here with her. “But there are reports of shooting and tear gas… They say an attack has been made on the vice president’s wife.”>Orange gold rays just beginning to streak through the window reminded him their pocket of time—this unexpected last chance to be together—was ending. In less than an hour, he would have to wake her so they could report for duty.
Report in to do their jobs in a world where missions like this one were becoming too frequent, near brushes with the possibility of a cataclysmic attack. How long could they keep dousing these threats? Was he wrong to hold out on committing to Stella because of what might happen when time was already so damn precious?
No, damn it. Because he did love her, too much to risk adding another ticking time bomb to her life.
He kissed her shoulder lightly, whispering against her freckled skin, “Love you.”
Easing from the bed to shower alone, he left her.
***
Annie leaned against the wall in the back of the cafeteria where eight classes of students had been gathered to watch news footage streaming out of Mogadishu today. The broadcast was subtitled. Her stomach knotted. The lingering scent of goat liver from lunch made her nauseous.
The room was packed with wooden tables and chairs, and she couldn’t stop the illogical thought of how the number of people would be a fire code violation back in the States. She just needed to keep reminding herself that a school, home, and regular meals were tough to come by for children in this region, much less for orphans. This concrete building with a cracked foundation and peeling paint was a godsend to these kids.
She was making a difference here. Saving lives rather than taking them. And yes, there were days she wanted to rage in frustration over the lost children, the stolen lives, and unbearably poor odds for a free future. However, she couldn’t turn away. Teaching here, spending her life, being as much of a mother to these children as she knew how—that was her atonement for the harm she’d caused in the line of duty.
For abandoning her own children.
An arm’s reach away, an eleven-year-old girl named Khaali leaned back in her chair. “Why do we have to watch this, Mrs. Johnson?”
Khaali had lost her mother to a post-childbirth infection. Her father left the infant with her grandparents and disappeared. The grandparents were killed in an uprising three years ago and she’d been brought here. She was one of the lucky ones. She’d had a fairly stable, well-fed first eight years and hadn’t ended up on the streets after her grandparents were killed.
Luck was a relative thing in a country that stoned women to death.
Annie knelt beside her. “Because I teach you English, I also teach you about English-speaking countries. This is a visit by a very important American woman. She is the wife of the vice president of the United States. Look at all the celebration in place. This is a big deal.”
The television screen was filled with images of the pre-ceremonies keeping the crowd entertained while they waited for the plane to land. Dancers performed in regional garb. The colors and sounds of local culture drew Annie now, just as it had when she’d left the States. She loved this country and its people. She turned back to Khaali.
“Boring.” The girl tipped her chair back and forth.
“She cares what happens to you.” Annie palmed the back of the chair, gently forcing all four legs on the floor again. “She cares about things that are happening to young girls and boys in this country.”
Khaali stared at the television, twirling the edge of her long yellow headscarf between two fingers. “Do you really believe the words from one lady, a lady who just happens to be married to someone important, will bring back our friends, like Ajaya?”
A sense of hopelessness washed over her because no, she didn’t think this political visit would make any lasting difference. It was a gesture. She’d been idealistic a long time ago, but not anymore. Now she was a realist. She lived one day at a time, ensuring that for today, these children were fed, taught, loved.