Tunisia, 7:00 p.m. Mohammed Al-Kujbahan perched on the hump of ground rising several feet above the bank of the watering hole. His sharp gaze darted through the darkness, picking out the shadowy forms of his charges as they lumbered, wheezing and cough-grunting, to the water’s edge. “Hammudi.” His younger sister’s sweet, high-pitched call came through the night. Mohammed scowled. How many times had he told her to stop calling him by that childish form of his name? “Hammudi. Yehla, yehla,” she called, closer now. What was she doing out here? And why tell him to hurry? He was doing his job. Who could hurry a camel? “Here,” he answered softly, not for her, that softness, but for the camels. He was a good camel herder, the best, he told himself. Aida, despite the darkness, lithely clambered up beside him. “The lamb is ready, Hammudi,” she said. “I’m hungry.” “Go eat, then.” “Mother says we must wait for you. Ah, Hammudi, please. I am so hungry.” Aida tugged his thin arm. Mohammed shrugged off her touch. Aida’s tone irritated him. He was hungry, too, but the food they ate cost money. He nudged her roughly. “Go back to the tent. Do something useful. I will come when I come. You know nothing of my duties.” The rich American who had contracted the camels was shrewd, far more watchful than other contractors. And freer with coins. Calling him mean and spiteful, Aida scrambled away. A camel bellowed, and something in its tone brought Mohammed to his feet. Other camels milled, shifted, bumped each other and rumbled noisily. Mohammed pinned his gaze to Aida’s fleeing form as camels edged before and behind her. He tried to call to her but sudden not seeing tiny Aida drop to the sand or the camels trampling her, blackness filled the world and he collapsed, unconscious, their small brains filled with terror.
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