Holly POV
I believed I was somewhere in Iraq. I could never be sure, since the man who had been handling me for the past few months never specified where I was going. I could speak Arabic, but he was careful to never reveal too much to me. Eventually, I was no longer of use to him. I never knew what the final straw was, but I didn't care. He left me in a little hamlet to die. Luckily, the local women took pity on me. They cleaned me up, clothed me, and nursed my injuries. I was no longer in captivity, but I wasn't free either. The only place I knew where to go in Iraq would be Baghdad, and I had no way of getting there. No one was willing to part with an animal or bike long enough, and forget about a vehicle. I was still trapped. I was learning how to make bread with one woman, Alya, who was about my age. Her name meant "from heaven" and she truly was. She was the one who allowed me to stay in her home and really nursed me back to health. She was widowed, with two daughters. She was the kindest person I had ever met – more nurturing than even my own mother.
"Holly," she said, suddenly very serious. "We should go inside."
"Why?" I asked. "We've only just started."
I followed her gaze out to the road that lay across a field of wild grass. There appeared to be a line of vehicles stopped there. I gasped. The Republican Guard had not bothered to attack hamlets like this before. But then again, it didn't look like the vans that the Guard used. They looked more like…Humvees. I almost did not want to believe that Americans were in this part of the world. Last I heard, the Americans were still focusing on Afghanistan.
"Does that look like Republican Guard to you?" I asked Alya.
She shook her head. "I don't know who they are. I have never seen trucks like that before."

I stared out for another minute or so. I couldn't be sure that they were Americans, but I knew they might be last chance to get back home. If they were Saddam's army then…well, I had been a captive before, I knew I could handle it.
I turned to Alya. "Thank you for everything you have done for me," I said. "You have been a wonderful blessing. I wouldn't be alive without you."
"Why does it sound like you are telling me goodbye?" she wondered.
"Because I am," I replied, and realized I was choking up. I hugged her – something only an American would do – but she accepted it, although confused.
After one final, meaningful look shared with her, I took off running in the direction of the road. I pushed myself as hard as I could go, breathing heavy within seconds. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was pumping through me. All I could think was that this was my last shot.

Doc POV
"What the fuck is that?" wondered Ray.
"Looks like one foot-mobile, running right at us," answered Brad. "Only see the one, though, and no other concerning movement."
"Armed?" I asked.
"Unclear," Brad said.
He radioed it to Fick. I watched as the Iraqi got closer. From what I could see, he didn't look armed. An AK-47 would have been clear from this distance, and he was fast approaching.

"Hey, Sergeant," said Trombley. "If we get the OK, can I shoot him?"
"You know what? Yes, Trombley, you may," Brad replied.
I rolled my eyes. Trombley was definitely not right in the head. He was obsessed with killing people. I never thought I could get along with him. As a doctor, people getting shot only meant trouble, even if they were Republican Guard.
"He's getting pretty close, Sergeant," Trombley said, warning in his tone.
"Hold your fire, Trombley, we are not clear to engage," Brad returned.
"He's getting too close!" Trombley protested, shifting his finger to the trigger.
"Trombley, just hold on, we are not - !" Brad began but was cut off by the firing of a round from Trombley's saw.
The Iraqi fell with a scream. I jumped to my feet.
"What the fuck, Trombley!" Brad bellowed at his subordinate. "I told you that we were not clear to engage! We don't know who the hell that guy was!"
"Is," I corrected, pointing out to the field. "He's back up."
We all watched as the Iraqi stood, no longer running, but limping toward us.
"That is one determined Haji," Ray commented.

Holly POV
The flesh of my leg exploded when I was shot. I screamed and fell to the ground, feeling like it was burning. After a moment or so on the ground, I forced myself to my feet. I had to get to the Humvees. I had gotten close enough to confirm that they were American. I had to get help. I understood them shooting at me, though. They didn't know I was one of them. I was dressed in Iraqi clothes and came hurtling toward them. Biting my lip through the pain, a staggered onward. I had to reach them. I just had to. I would not spend another day stuck where I was. I'd go crazy if I did.
As I got closer, I realized they were shouting. A heavy throbbing was in my head, as if my whole body was suffering from my wound, so everything sounded muffled. I felt the hot stickiness trailing down my leg now, and tried not to think about how much blood I was losing. I was beginning to feel light headed as I got closer, and I prayed my main artery had not been cut. I was not going to die here. Fuck that, I thought.
After what felt like hours, I was finally within feet of them. I put my hands up in surrender. I heard more shouting like "woman!" and "what the fuck!" but couldn't register any of it. From their uniforms, I saw that they were Marines. I could have cried. My dad was a Marine – I automatically trusted them. I locked eyes with one wearing a bandana as he made his way over to me.
"Please," I breathed before collapsing into his arms.
He immediately began barking orders at people that were littered with swear words. Then he held my gaze again.
"Hey," he said surprisingly gently and laid me on the ground. "I need you to stay with me, okay? Stay awake. What's your name?"
"Holly," I answered, finding it harder and harder to focus.
"Okay, Holly, are you an American?" he asked, no longer looking at me but at my leg. He tore open the fabric in his way and began his work.
"Yes," I told him. "I'm an American."
"I'm sure there's a helluva story for how you got here," he said. "I need you to stay awake so you can tell it to me."
"I'm trying," I told him. I made myself watch him as he worked. "I was stabbed in that leg, you know," I said. It was my way of making conversation.
"How long ago?" he asked, looking me in the eyes again.
"Oh, months ago," I said. "It didn't feel this hot, though. I've never been shot before. It feels like my leg is on fire."
"I know, I know," he said, as he bandaged the wound.
In the opposite thigh, he inserted what I assumed was morphine. Almost immediately, the pain dissipated. It was now even harder to stay awake. I heard him yell for a stretcher and then everything went black.