Free Baghdad Central by Elliott Colla Page B

without tears or sound.
    â€œMy God, Baba. What have they done to you?” She begins to cough uncontrollably and falls over. She wipes the spit from her lips, then sits up again.
    â€œI’m here, Mrouji, and I’ll be fine.”
    â€œDid they hurt you?”
    â€œNo. They don’t know how to do that. What about you – did they do anything to you?”
    â€œI’m fine, Baba. They came back and told me you wanted to see me. They drove me here.”
    â€œAre you OK?”
    â€œI’m not better. And I’m not worse.” She coughs twice and shudders.
    â€œYou look worse.”
    â€œNo, Baba. You’re the one who looks worse.”
    Khafaji’s silence is heavy, even loud. Louder than the breath in his nostrils.
    â€œBaba, tell me. Are you OK?” She winces and stops herself again.
    â€œI’m fine, Mrouji. They can’t hurt me.”
    â€œWhat did they want? What’s going on?”
    â€œI don’t know. They were looking for someone. Now they want me to work for them.”
    â€œDon’t do it, Baba.”
    â€œWhy did they bring you here? Did they tell you?”
    â€œThey told me you wanted to see me. They said I could come and see you and that I’d be free to go whenever I want. Don’t worry about me. I can manage.”
    â€œDon’t believe them. I need to think about this some more.”
    â€œReally, don’t worry about me, Baba.” Mrouj begins to cough and doubles over. When she sits up again, her face is frozen in a grimace.
    Khafaji looks at her with suspicion in his eyes. “They lied to get you here, Mrouj. They wanted me to see you, and now I have. We need to think about what they’re trying to do.”
    The door opens and a soldier pulls Mrouj’s wheelchair backwards. Khafaji screams at the man as he takes her away. He is still shouting her name long after the door closes.
    An hour or more goes by before another officer walks into the room. By then Khafaji has made his decision.
    â€œI will do it. But on one condition.”
    â€œWhat is that, Khafaji?”
    â€œMy daughter is sick. Her kidneys. She needs to get to a real hospital. You want me to help you? You need to help my daughter. This can’t wait.”
    The man stands up and says, “I’ll see what we can do.” And then he disappears.
    A soldier and another officer enter the room some time later. The soldier cuts the ties on Khafaji’s wrists then leaves. The officer puts a file on the table and begins to talk. “Your daughter will be taken to Ibn Sina Hospital. You’re being released on probation. Go get your shit in order. You report at the Coalition Provisional Authority tomorrow. You’ll be working with Citrone.”
    He never once looks at Khafaji until he hands him a piece of paper with names and numbers on it, and a couple of stamps. “You want to see your daughter? Bring this with you to Checkpoint Three. They’re expecting you at nine.”
    Khafaji blinks and the man murmurs, “The gate at the Convention Center. You’ll see the line when you get there. Go straight to the front with these papers. If you don’t followthese directions, it’ll be a long time before you see your daughter again.”
    Suddenly, Khafaji is being escorted out of the complex by yet another short soldier.
    He waits in one of the white trailers at the gate while someone bundles papers into cabinets. Every so often, he drinks more warm tea in the same flimsy paper cups. He smiles, and dozes off imagining how good it will feel to sleep in his own bed.
    The phone rings and wakes up Khafaji. The receptionist tells him that his transportation has arrived. Khafaji goes outside to a battered Humvee. A boy soldier waves and opens the back door. Khafaji gets in without saying a word to the other three young soldiers inside. The driver says, “Strap yourself in. Where are we taking you?”
    Khafaji