Free Endangered by Eliot Schrefer

weapons”: machetes, clubs, and knives, so-called because they killed without noise. At the close of the broadcast, the announcer said, “Any citizens of the USA, or EU countries with Belgian reciprocity agreements, will be airlifted out of Kinshasa’s N’Djili Airport at 20:00 tonight on marked UN planes. The respective embassies request that any applicable citizens be at the airport no later than 17:00. Any citizens whose addresses are registered with the embassies of the USA, Belgium, or France and living outside the confines of Kinshasa proper will be picked up by an armored UN vehicle between now and 16:00.”
    â€œYour dad is American. You’re a US citizen,” Patrice said.
    Everyone stared at me. It felt terrible to be singled out forrescue, when the rest of the staff would have to stay here. “I’m sure they’ll come back for you guys,” I said.
    Mama Marie-France snorted. “They’re going to fly out sixty million of us?”
    Perhaps to save me from embarrassing myself, Patrice led me into the hallway. Otto gripped my torso and stared at Patrice’s lips, reaching out to touch them as he spoke.
    â€œI can see this is making you uncomfortable. But we have to get you onboard that plane. The American government will make sure it gets all its citizens out. I know for a fact that your parents would insist you were on that plane.”
    I knew it, too. They would want me out of here. I wanted to ask “What about you and all the rest of the workers?” but I knew the answer, and it made me sad. Then I wanted to ask “What about Otto?” but I knew the answer to that, too, and it made me sick.
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    All I could do that afternoon was walk. Around the edge of the enclosure. Around the nursery, with the oblivious young bonobos pranking one another. Around the front walk. I kept moving, because if I’d stayed still for even a moment, I would have fallen apart.
    At any moment, the UN truck would arrive. I, and only I, would get in and leave. They’d fly me to Miami, and I’d be with Dad in time for my first day of high school. I wished so much that I could call him.
    I was worried about my mom, but wartime Congo was the opposite of fairy tales: The wilderness was the safe place, not the town, because hiding was the only way to survive. By now my mom was off in the remote reaches of a national park. She might not even know what was happening. She was probably fine, andwould learn about our few days of crisis only when she came back to civilization.
    Because I didn’t need to worry about her, I worried about Otto. At any moment the UN vehicle would come, and I would have to leave him. As the political upheaval settled down, the mamas would take care of him alongside the other nursery bonobos — but it was only because he’d bonded with me that he’d pulled through and survived. I didn’t think he’d make it through the loss of another mother, not when we hadn’t yet transitioned him over. Even another week with me might make the difference. If I left now, he would fall into despair and give up. Saving myself would mean destroying him.
    I kept thinking of those two little bonobos on the back of the bike. Could I doom Otto, too?

The big white UN van came rumbling by in the midafternoon. Otto and I were already on the front step; when the rest of the staff heard the noise of the approaching vehicle, they came out to join us. Their expressions were hard to read. Knots of relief and envy and fatigue. They’d been through situations like this a few times in the last twenty years. Some people got rescued, and most didn’t. There were no screams, no attempts to plead their way into the van.
    Two guards in light blue camouflage uniforms and flak jackets got out. An officer stood in front of them, a slender man with a blue cap that somehow looked both rakish and sloppy on his head. When he spoke I recognized an Italian