JAWAD

By the time I got into that car, it was already too late. I was already a ghost.

I was talking about school, about the Bulls game. The floor heater was on in the car, and I was glad my feet were warm.

Then something hit me in the head. Everything went blurry and slow. I raised my hand to my neck; it was sticky and warm. I yelled. I think I yelled. But then a cloth covered my face, pressing down so hard.

Help me. Help me. Help—

I thought of Baba. I’d told him I would go straight to the dry cleaner’s after school. I thought of Mama and how she had burned some incense that morning. Normally, she would wait until later in the day, near dinnertime, but sometimes she liked to burn it on damp days. The smell reminded her of home, she said, where the damp cold didn’t seep into your bones like it did here. I loved that our house smelled like that incense.

All my words got trapped. Crammed in my throat. Even now I want to scream. I want to scream who did this. But I can’t. I’m stuck. It’s like saying a name could almost kill me again.

Help me. Help me. Help—

It’s the last thing I could say. I thought it was a scream, but I think it was only a whisper. A hope. A prayer. My last thought before the end, because suddenly everything got quiet.

Then it was dark, and there was a light in the distance. Shining.