Sunrise Over Fallujah by Walter Dean Myers

and they began tearing the place apart looking for more weapons. The sergeant told us to shoot the kid if he moved.
    The old woman started crying and pleading. Marla tried to calm her. Then she took off her helmet and the woman saw that Marla was a female. She tried to take her hand and kiss it. Marla didn’t want the woman kissing her hand and tried to get her to sit down. The man, gray-haired and toothless, was babbling away. I felt as if I had to pee.
    â€œHe’s saying that the boy is good, that he doesn’t fight anybody,” Ahmed said.
    â€œYou believe him?”
    â€œThey have the weapon,” Ahmed said, with a shrug.
    The woman stood up again.
    â€œSit down!” Marla said, indicating with her hand what she wanted the woman to do.
    The woman’s eyes widened and she got down on her knees.
    Ahmed said something in Arabic that I guessed meant “sit down,” but the woman got up and took a picture from the counter. She took it out of its frame and handed it to Marla. Her hands were shaking as she spoke in Arabic.
    â€œShe saying that he’s her grandson and he’s a good boy,” Ahmed said when the old woman went on.
    â€œTake him outside!” the sergeant snapped.
    We started to take the boy and the grandmother let out a wail that filled the room. The old man fell to his knees and began to pray. The little girl began to wail, too. When the old man started to stand I pointed my rifle at him and he got back down on his knees and held his hands palm-up and began to pray again.
    â€œTell her we’ll take care of her grandson,” Marla said.
    Ahmed began talking to the woman, who was tearing at her clothes and crying almost hysterically. When she saw Marla put the photograph down she got up and gave it back to her.
    â€œShe wants you to think of her because you are a woman,” Ahmed said.
    We started out and I told Marla to put her Kevlar back on. She was biting her lip, but she got it back on. The 3 rd ID guys had the Iraqi kid by one wrist and his hair and took him outside. We reached the street and four or five other infantry guys jumped down from the truck they were on.
    They pushed the kid down into the dirt as an officer came over. The sergeant who had found the launcher was explaining what had happened in the house, when a shot rang out.
    A gunner on a Humvee spotted the shooter and opened up. The sniper was in a second-story window; I saw the rifle go spinning into the air and his arm fly up as he fell backward into the darkness of the room.
    The kid on the ground jumped up and started to run.
    The gunners’ first bullets kicked up the dust near his feet. The next spun him completely around. The last knocked him backward.
    Some 3 rd ID guys headed toward the house where the shot had come from. Two heavily armed soldiers walked slowly toward the kid’s body lying in the street. I didn’t want to see him, but I couldn’t help walking toward the still figure.
    The boy’s body was curled forward, head bent toward his knees. There was a dark stain on the front of his light blue shirt, a triangle of blood spread on the ground in front of him. One hand was closed and one opened, the fingers slightly spread. I felt myself holding my breath. I moved the muzzle of my weapon away from him. It was harder to move my eyes away.
    The grandmother ran from the building. She looked heavier than she had in the apartment. Her mouth was open, a black hole in her gray, lined face. Her lips moved but there was no sound. She gestured toward the boy, took a tentative step to him, then stumbled forward and fell on her knees. She looked at him andthen up at me. Her anguished eyes pleaded hopelessly. I walked away. Away from the house, away from the body, away from the grandmother. The buildings across the street, the soldiers moving cautiously past them, were unreal through my tears. It was a horror movie badly out of focus, with only the images in my head