Besieged and forgotten
My clothing is soaked with cold water. “Psst,” the Syrian rebel leader says, finger to his lips.
“What’s up?” I whisper. Keeping me informed is not always his top priority. I usually find out things are happening right after they happen.
The full moon casts a silvery light on the apricot groves and the pond in which we are lying. Everything we do makes its surface ripple like a motion detector, and the moon reminds me of a theater spotlight. “Ambush,” the man with the grenade whispers, pointing into the darkness …