War prisoners in a desert

Date: 12/29/2018

I’m in the desert, filthy and ragged clothes hang off me. I sit in the back of a truck among a ransacked crew of men. Most of them seem to be from somewhere in the middle-east, wearing camo, bandanas and other soldier-type clothings. The truck slows to a stop and we get out at a small pavilion. I hear my wife’s friend, Gaby, shouting “No! No!” and I turn back to the truck. The men have forced her on the back of the truck and are pouring gasoline all around her. “They are going to kill her because she has been complaining too much,” someone mutters to me. My stomach sinks. “We have to stop this,” I say, as I watch in horror, but I know I have no voice here. I’m a prisoner. I see a boy, about 7, look in my direction. “Please, is there anything we can do?” I beg. He gives me an understanding but hopeless gaze, then runs off to one of the men in the angry crowd. Just when I think all is lost, they plop Gaby down in front of me. She’s been spared. “Talk to her,” the boy tells me, and he runs off. I look at Gaby, she’s crying and shaking. “Gaby,” I call her, “look at me.” I put my hands on her shoulders, locking her attention onto me. “You’re OK. You’re going to get through this, but you need to get your shit together. Every second you breathe, you are lucky to be alive. These men have spared us, against their gut instincts they are giving us a chance. Stay strong.” She sniffles one last time, shakes off her tears and nods. I wake up feeling energized.