Jenkins
I'm covering Beni’s wound with a clean gauze when I hear gunshots again, pausing for a second before continuing.
"Relax, they’re just practicing."
"I am," I say, beginning to wrap the bandage around his abdomen.
For the past two days, I haven’t stopped hearing gunfire, and I’ve deduced that there’s a nearby area where they practice shooting. I just hope their targets aren’t living beings. The shots don’t bother me. I’ve lived with that sound my whole life—it’s like music to my ears. It’s comforting.
"So, can I get up now? I feel much better."
I help him lie back down and administer the antibiotic and painkillers before disposing of my latex gloves.
"You got shot just two days ago, kid. Take it easy for at least another week."
"Can you stop calling me 'kid' or 'boy'? I’m not
