I push away my guilt and rummage through her apartment. I find some money, some clothes, some food. I pack it all in a little bag I find in her closet and walk away, leaving her lying on her bed. Guilt draws me back. I knock hesitantly on the door across from hers.
A middle-aged man with a thick beard and a yellow-stained white sleeveless shirt stretching over a fat belly answers the door. "What do you want?"
I reel back from the stench of his body odor. "The woman who lives there," I point at the door behind me, "she died. I washed her laundry for her. I came today, and she was dead. From being old, I think."
"Did you take anything?" he asks, squinting at the bag on my shoulder.
"No," I lie, proud of my calm voice.
"Hmph." The man stares at me. "You are lying. That is her bag. I saw her with it when she visited her daughter in Beirut."
Panic shoots through me. "Please. It is just some food."
He waves his hand at me. "Go. She will not need her food, will she?"
"No, she will not."
The man waves his hand at me again, pushes past me, and closes his door behind him to shuffle across the hall and into the old woman's apartment. I watch him for a moment, then turn and go home.
The money lasts me for a long time. I am able to live off the old woman's money for many months, eating a little, stealing a little where I can to stretch it. And then, one day, the money is gone. I do not know how long it has been since I have seen Hassan, since Aunt Maida died. A year, maybe more? I do not know. I have looked for work, laundry to wash, someone to cook for, someone to clean for, but no one wants any help. They all want to stay in their houses where it is safe. They want to pretend they don't hear the gunfire, see the trucks rumble by with hard-eyed soldiers, hear the airplanes screaming overhead.
I am growing desperate. The hole of hunger in my belly is growing. My house is bare of food again. I have no money; I cannot find any kind of work. I roam the city, stopping in shops to beg for food or work.
No one relents. No one cares. I am just a girl.
I go farther and farther from home, until one day I cannot get back before dark. I huddle in a doorway, watching the darkness seep across the buildings like hungry fingers. I am nearly asleep when the smell of cooking food wafts across my face. I hear laughter, male, loud, boisterous and drunk. I stand up, scan the streets. I see the orange flicker of a fire on a rooftop, and before I realize it, I am creeping across the street, through the blackened doorway and up the creaking, rickety stairs at the back of the building. I do not have a plan, or any idea what waits for me up here, but the smell of roasting meat is enough to drive caution from my mind.
There are several men sitting on crates and buckets and an old couch, all dragged around a fire built inside an old metal barrel of some kind. There are eight men that I can see. Their rifles are on the ground or propped against the half-wall rimming the rooftop. Bottles of alcohol are being passed around and swigged from. One of the men half-turns to take a proffered bottle and sees me. He nudges the man next to me and points at me with the bottle.
"You should not be here, girl," he says.
"You have food," I say, barely above a whisper. Like it explains everything.
"Yes, we do," he says.
"I am hungry. Please, can you give me some?" I do not step forward when he extends a foil packet to me. I can see meat in it, and my stomach growls loudly.
"Come get it," he says. "I will not hurt you."
I am not sure I believe him. He has the hungry look in his eyes, the raking glance over my body. I want to turn and run, but the hunger in my belly holds sway over me. I inch forward. The other men have gone still and silent, bottles set down, eyes narrowed and watching the exchange. They do not even seem to be breathing.
One of them tightens his fingers in the fabric of his pants by his knees. They are all watching me. Fear pounds in my heart, but I cannot turn away. The foil with the roasted meat is within my grasp. I need it. I have not eaten in days. My stomach growls again, loudly enough for them all to hear, and the one holding the food smiles. It is not a humorous smile, a laughing smile, but a triumphant one.
I reach for the packet, and he lets me take it. I want to gobble all the succulent, juicy meat down as fast as I can, like an animal, but I force myself to go slowly, nibble, watching the men. I take a bite, chew carefully, nearly moaning in relief. Another, and I almost forget about the men.
Almost.
A hard, big hand latches around my wrist. "Nothing is free, girl." The voice is low and rough and hard.
I look up to see beady brown eyes leering down at me.
"I have no...no money." I hand back the packet, although it takes a huge effort to do so. "Take it back—I cannot pay. I am sorry."
"I said nothing about money." He chuckles like something is funny, but I do not know what.
One of the others speaks up. "She is too young, Malik. No."
The one with the packet of meat—whose name seems to be Malik—glances back at the other one in disgust. "She is plenty old enough. You do not have to join in." He looks at me. "Have you bled?"
I am confused. "What? Bled?" I try to pull away.
His grip on my arms tightens. "Yes, girl. Bled. Your monthly blood. Woman's blood."
I feel horror and embarrassment pulse through me. "Y-yes. More than a year now."
He turns to the other men, grinning. "See? She is a woman."
I am beginning to understand what is about to occur. I shake my head and try to pull free. "Please, no. No."
Malik does not let go. His grin widens. "Yes, girl. Yes. You ate my food. Now you pay me. It will not hurt too much. I am not a monster. I will not share you."
"Yes, you will," someone says, threat in his voice.
Malik growls, lifts his rifle from the ground without letting go of my arm. "No, I will not. She ate my food."
"You do not need to be this way," the one who first protested says. "She is just a girl. I will buy you more food. Let her go."
Malik spits on the ground, swaying a little. "You are weak, Mohammed."
He tugs me away from the fire, towards a black patch of shadows hiding the stairs. I stumble after him, fear pounding through me wildly now. The stairs creak under his weight, and in my fear-blindness I miss a stair, stumbling. Malik catches me, holds me up by the wrist and tugs me to my feet. There is a pallet of blankets on the floor in a corner, an empty bottle of booze, a box of shells, a cardboard box with cans and other food items in it, and next to the bed are some magazines with a picture of naked American women on the front.