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it refuses my touch. Desperate, the sound of pounding boots
coming closer, I slip the paper clip in the laces of my sneaker
and bend the wire just enough to keep it there.
Then I run.
I don’t overthink it—I head for the room across the hall
and directly for the window, where I slip behind the cur-
tains. I unlatch the window, which opens out to a parking
lot. This building is massive and I’m ten stories up. Sur-
rounding the parking lot are the familiar green fields that
dot most every place around Lebanon.
If I can get out this window and down to the ground, I
can run, fast and far.
But the only way to do it is jump. I might be Contami-
nated, and so far it’s made me furious and reckless, but it
hasn’t yet made me fearless. I don’t have time to strip the
bed of sheets and make a rope. I barely have time to squeeze
out the window onto the narrow ledge that leads from win-
dow to window. I tug the curtains closed behind me to give
myself some time, and then I’m clinging to the ledge with
my fingers tight against the bricks.
It’s like climbing the rock wall, except there are no soft
mats to catch me and no conveniently placed grips. But I
tell myself it’s just like the rock wall so that I can keep mov-
ing. Slide my hands, slide my feet along the ledge to the
next window, where there’s nothing to hold on to but the
glass, and I’m afraid to go across it in case the curtains are
open and they can see me.
