Page 15 of Zero Hour

She’d seen them before—first with her father, then with some of her patients. But Amir’s were bad. Maybe the worst she’d ever encountered.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He stared at her, his gaze blank, as if he didn’t recognize her at all.

She knew what was happening. The memories, the nightmares, the flashbacks—whatever you wanted to call them—were still firing through his mind. His sleep-addled brain scrambled to separate the dream from reality.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “Come join me when you’re ready.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving the bedroom door open.

She knew his pride wouldn’t let him stay curled up in the dark for long.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, he shuffled into the kitchen.

“You heard me?”

She nodded. “Was it the same dream?”

“Yeah. From my childhood.” He sat down, bare feet sticking out from under the table.

She slid a cup of sweet tea toward him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The first time she met him, she’d thought Amir was the most terrifying man she’d ever encountered. Cold, unforgiving eyes. A mouth that never smiled. A relaxed, confident demeanor that masked a brutal temper. He was a man who could erupt at any moment.

Like the man in the restaurant.

But now, sitting across from her pale, sweating, and shaken, he didn’t look terrifying at all. Not like a hardened terrorist. More like a frightened child. She knew better than anyone that you could only patch up trauma for so long before the cracks start to show.

It would take time for Amir to work through the damage. Years, even. And she still got the feeling he wasn’t telling her everything.

“Does it really help?” He reached for the tea. “Talking about it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It desensitizes you. Makes it less scary.”

“Okay, but you’ve heard this before.”

“Only the beginning,” she corrected. “You never finished last time.”

Last time, he’d stormed out. The memories were still too raw, even after all these years.

He hesitated. Then, finally, he began.

“We lived in Kuwait. We had a nice house, a good life. Then the war came. Operation Desert Storm.” He spat out the words like they were poison.

“I was twelve years old. My brother, Kasim, was eight. We were in our room when we heard it—a sound like thunder, but louder. A missile had hit the street outside.”

His face was haunted, his hands clenching the teacup.

Jasmine stayed silent. She didn’t want to interrupt his thought process.

“More missiles followed. People ran into the streets, screaming. It was chaos. I let go of my brother’s hand and he ran back inside the house. My mother went after him, even though my father tried to stop her.”

He stared at a spot on the table, unblinking.

“That’s when it hit. I remember watching the house explode in a ball of fire and thought: My family is in there.”

Jasmine’s heart went out to the twelve-year-old boy left standing in the rubble.

“It must have been terrifying,” she said gently.

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