Free Wounded by Jasinda Wilder Page A

something, shaking her head, shrugging.  
    "I know you don't understand me. It doesn't matter." I smile at her, but she stares at me, impassive. "Sleep."
    I mime sleeping, hands folded under my face, an exaggerated snore, then point at her. I point at myself with a thumb. I try to move and a groan escapes. I look at her and shrug, then mime sleeping again. She frowns in thought, then gives me a tiny smile. She gets it. She closes her eyes slowly, her eyelids flutter, then close again. Her breathing slows, and then she's asleep. I watch her sleep.
    Why did she bring me here? Why did she help me? I would have bled out, died. I'm a burden. I won't be able to do shit for myself for weeks. I'll need to eat. I'll need help shitting. How can she help me? This house is tiny. She can't have much. I'll need antibiotics, probably. I'd wish for morphine, but I know I won't get it. Probably won't even get aspirin.  
    Now that she's asleep, I let the pain wash over me and let it show. It hurts so goddamn bad it's hard to breathe.
    I fall asleep again.
    When I wake, bright sunlight streams through the square, uncovered window. I'm on the floor in a corner. There's another bed opposite me, a mattress on the dirt covered by neatly folded blankets. There's an old, battered stove in one corner, older than me. A single bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, a large hunk of mirror with taped edges leaning against the wall. The girl is nowhere to be seen.
    I close my eyes again, and that's when I hear it: the unmistakable sounds of sex. Male grunts, female moans. The moans sound forced, too loud, too exuberant. It lasts for a moment, then stops. I hear boots scritching in the dirt and a male voice muttering under his breath in Arabic. Another moment, and then the girl appears in the doorway, smoothing her hair with her fingers. She doesn't glance at me, as if not seeing me. She goes into the tiny bathroom with the rusted stainless steel sink, slips out of her skirt, cleans herself with damp rag. I watch, embarrassed, but unable to look away.  
    She is lithe, slim, long-legged, with flawless dark skin. I make myself look away to give her privacy. I hear her say something, a curse if the tone of her voice is any indication. I look at her. She is staring at me, almost expectantly. She is still naked from the waist down. I avert my eyes, roll away, groaning in pain.
    I hear clothing rustle and she's clothed again, standing over me. She has money in her hand, and that's when I put two and two together. Understanding must be visible on my face, because her features harden. Her fist clenches around the wad of bills.
    "Hey, it's none of my business," I say.  
    She responds, but of course I don't understand what she's saying. She sounds angry. She gestures at herself, at the door, which I take to be a gesture at the world at large. She's explaining herself, I think. She touches her stomach, hunching over it, groaning.  
    "You don't owe me any explanations," I say, as if we're having a conversation.
    Hunger. I realize what she was trying to say with her charade. She sold herself for food. Pity must have registered on my face, and she must have recognized it. Her eyes blaze with anger, and she tosses the money at me and stomps away, although she only goes to the other side of the little house, arms folded, back bowing out and shoulder heaving as she breathes through her emotions.
    "I'm sorry," I say.
    She turns to look at me over her shoulder and says something. My imagination fills in the gap: I don't want your pity . She turns away and opens a cabinet, finds a box, produces a pill, and dry-swallows it. Birth control, I imagine. I wonder if it's difficult to get a hold of, out here.  
    She brings me flat bread and a bottle of water, a packet of foil containing ground beef or lamb. I struggle to sit up, gritting my teeth against the pulsating pain. She motions at me to stay down, mimes feeding me. Hell, no . I ignore her and get my shoulder blades