A Vision of Fire

“My god,” Ganak breathed.

Ignacio flipped his tablet to face himself but before he could speak his hands wobbled and the camera swung wildly, hitting the floor. Ben gasped. Had he been shot? But the picture remained, showing Ignacio crawling away from the window. He reached a woman lying nearby, grabbed her under the arms, and, still on his knees, dragged her jerking body through an arch into the living room. The woman was screaming, her stomach heaving, blood gushing from her mouth onto her yellow sari. They could see the red stain spreading over one side of her chest. Ignacio crawled back into the room and then he was facing the camera, yelling: “Get the UN forces here now! I don’t have the authority—get the damned UN to order them to move!”

Then in the distance, another explosion. The picture dropped and the feed cut off.

Ben closed his eyes. He was perspiring, shaking as though he had a high fever. Globes of light were exploding behind his eyelids—physical memories of bombs at night high over Bangladesh in 2001. He heard his name from a distance, opened his eyes, and there was Ganak calling to him.

“Ben…?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

“I only recorded my portion—”

“I’ll send you the full recording.”

“Thank you. We must meet at once. Can you come to my office in half an hour?”

“Of course.”

The men ended the chat without courtesies. The ambassador would already be moving to contact military officers. Ben e-mailed the video, then sat and shook, wiping moisture from his brow and eyes. He wanted the whole goddamned thing over there to end, every madness humans inflicted on themselves to go away.

• • •

Back in the bedroom, Caitlin jolted awake.

She swung her legs out of bed and only then remembered that her old friend Ben had been in that bed all night.

She pulled on a bathrobe and padded down the hall, pausing outside Jacob’s room in case he was awake early. She heard nothing and continued to the living room, where she saw Ben sitting with his hands on the top of his head, huddled under her afghan in utter despair. Is he regretting last night? she thought, but then she noticed his tablet, his Google account open, and a blank video chat window.

“Ben,” she said, and placed one hand on his shoulder. His breathing was deep and ragged as he forced it into a rhythm, trying to control himself.

“Jammu,” he blurted. “Attack on a shopping center.”

“Oh no,” Caitlin said, sitting next to him.

“Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“You didn’t. Anything I can do?”

He shook his head and stood, dropping the blanket. “Another bump to the body count,” he said harshly, and shoved his tablet into his bag with sharp, angry movements. “I’ve got to meet the ambassador. This thing is beyond out of control.”

He hurried back to Caitlin’s bedroom, miserable and urgent.

She gave him his space. She knew this side of Ben—this side of the work they did. She picked up the afghan and wrapped it around herself, trying to focus on anything other than what Ben had just told her. She had not heard from Gaelle since she left Haiti. Whenever she called, she got the Anglade Charter voice mail. And Maanik—Caitlin was barely keeping a handhold on the cliff of that trauma. She almost envied Ben’s having a target to focus on: territorial carnivores fighting over land and ideology. What the hell was she battling? The session with Maanik had taunted rather than informed her. It was like she was searching for something cunning, cagey, that did not wish to be seen.

If I want to help these kids, if I want to sleep again, I need more information. Ben was dealing with his crisis by running toward it. She had to do the same.

There was another teenager Caitlin had not been able to contact yet. She brought up her phone’s browser and searched for Atash. It took some time but she discovered an article written the day before about self-immolation in Iran. It referred to the boy who set himself on fire in a library. He was, it said, in critical condition at a Tehran hospital.

Still alive, Caitlin thought with a rush of exhilaration.

Ben came charging into the living room.

“I’m sorry.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry I’m handling this so—so crappy.”

“You’re not,” she replied. “It’s been a helluva few days.”

He agreed with a grunt as he grabbed his coat and thrust an arm into it.

She struggled with herself, knowing that if she said anything now it was probably going to be seen as wrong—but it had to be said before she lost him to this crisis. “Ben, I know the timing couldn’t be worse but I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I have to get to Iran as soon as possible.”

Ben’s hands dropped from the coat zipper he’d been trying to close. He looked sad but when he spoke he sounded ferocious. “What are you talking about?”

“The boy who burned himself—he’s alive.”

“Okay—and?”

“You saw last night what we’re up against. I have to see him.”