The air in the sterile hospital room felt thin, a cold gauze pressed against Taji’s lungs as he opened his eyes. An unfamiliar ceiling swam into focus, the weak fluorescence of the lights a dull ache behind his eyelids. The ringing in his ears persisted, no longer the sharp crack of gunfire, but a distant murmur of urgent voices, the cool touch of gloved hands against his torn shirt. Paramedics. He was alive.

He tried to push himself up, but a searing pain erupted from his left side, a throbbing testament to the wound. Red bloomed through his shirt, stark and terrifying. It felt like molten iron had seared through flesh, an unforgettable agony. He closed his eyes again, the world softening at the edges, the cacophony fading into a deep, welcoming darkness.

How long he slept, he couldn’t say. When he next opened his eyes, he was in a hospital room. White sheets, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant. Beside him, his mother sat, her face a mask of worry. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips a tight, trembling line.