Free Behind the Walls by Merry Jones Page B

weren’t aiming at her; IEDs weren’t buried in the road. Harper raced ahead, trying not to think of Burke Everett or their time in Iraq. But as she crossed the bridge toward campus, she distinctly saw the woman in a burqa standing beside the street. And, oh God. She recognized her. Had seen her before. Knew what she was planning. And this time – even if it killed her – this time, she would stop her  . . .
    Harper swerved, made a U-turn, got off her bike. Set out on foot, chasing after the woman, and, locating her, Harper raised a weapon, confronted her. Ordered the woman to put her hands on her head and get on the ground. But the woman stood there, defiant, unmoving. Harper repeated her orders. Asked if the woman understood English. Gradually became aware of voices behind her. People crowding around  . . .
    ‘She has a bomb,’ Harper warned. ‘It’s hidden in her burqa. Stay away – she’ll detonate it!’
    Nobody responded. Nobody ran to help. Nobody seemed concerned. They stood still, watching her. Tittering. And laughing.
    Harper blinked, looked around. Slowly, the sand of Iraq faded, became the concrete of Ithaca. The soldiers became students. Oh God – her gun turned into a flashlight. And the woman – the suicide bomber? Her burqa was flowing, long and black. She stood outside a hookah shop, an inanimate mannequin dressed like a Halloween witch. Complete with broom.
    Oh God. Harper felt her face burn. She hadn’t had so severe a flashback in more than a year. Faces surrounded her, leering, questioning, mocking.
    ‘Look out – the mannequin has a bomb.’ Someone snickered.
    ‘What is she on?’
    ‘Whatever it is, I want some!’
    ‘Cut it out – she’s mentally ill.’
    ‘Right. Listen to the Psych major.’
    ‘Seriously.’ Someone touched her arm. ‘Are you OK?’
    Harper took a step back. Looked at the faces. Oh God. ‘Fine.’ Another step back. ‘I was just – I’m fine.’ She fled to her bike, set it right, jumped on and sped away, feeling eyes on her all the way across campus until, ignoring the graveyard, pumpkins and skeletons in the yard next door, she finally made it home.
    Hank looked up from a soup pot. His eyes were twinkling like usual, and something smelled wonderful. ‘Chili.’ He told her. ‘Veggie.’
    ‘Yum.’ Harper tried to smile. Tried to stop trembling and act normal. She kissed him, asked how he was.
    ‘Mood. Better.’ He stirred in some cumin. ‘Busy. Helps.’
    He was talking about his feelings. A good sign.
    ‘You?’
    Harper looked away. He wanted to know how she was. What should she say? That she’d just had a humiliating flashback? Or endured a crazy visit with paranoid Burke Everett? Or accepted Zina’s assistantship, about which he’d had serious reservations? No. She couldn’t risk talking about any of those things, at least not yet. Hank was feeling better but his mood was probably still fragile. She didn’t want to upset him and send him into another bout of depression. ‘I’m fine. I had a busy day, too.’
    He nodded. ‘Good. Stuff done?’
    He assumed she’d been in the library, gathering research for her dissertation. It was where she should have been. ‘Not a whole lot. I wasted time.’
    He shrugged, tasted his chili. ‘Some days. Happens.’
    ‘Need any help?’ Harper took out her phone, texted Leslie: Can U C me? Bad flashback.
    ‘Salad. Make.’
    Harper took out a bag of pre-washed lettuce, a bag of walnuts. Maybe it wasn’t really a relapse. Maybe her PTSD wasn’t getting worse; she’d just been reacting to seeing Burke again, and the flashback had been like an allergic response. A case of emotional hives; embarrassing, but not really a big deal. Her face reddened at the thought of the witch in College Town. The crowd staring at her  . . .
    ‘Today. Nahual here.’
    What? Harper looked up, saw Hank’s playful smile. She crumbled blue cheese into the salad bowl. Why would he ask that? ‘A Nahual. You saw