The space between them in the dark clinic was no longer space. It was a gulf, freshly excavated by his confession and now widening with every spasm of her shocked heart. The initial, numb silence had been replaced by a low, desperate tension. Sarah leaned against the plywood wall, as though she needed its solidity to contain her in a reality just made fluid.
"Stop it."
The words weren't an option. They were a cry, torn out of a place of gut, professional, and personal fear. Her fists were bunched at her sides, knuckles white.
Dawud stood behind his makeshift desk, the book of his heresies open between them like a chargesheet. He shook his head, a slow, weary motion. "Stop what, Sarah? Stop rescuing them?"
"Stop this!" she flailed her arms wildly, over the clinic, the camp, the concept
