{"product_id":"sand-queen-isbn-9781616951849","title":"Sand Queen","description":"Nineteen-year-old Kate Brady joined the army to bring honor to her family and to the Middle East. Instead, she finds herself in a forgotten corner of the Iraq desert in 2003, guarding a makeshift American prison. There, Kate meets Naema Jassim, an Iraqi medical student whose father and little brother have been detained in the camp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKate and Naema promise to help each other, but the war soon strains their intentions. Like any soldier, Kate must face the daily threats of combat duty, but as a woman, she is in equal danger from the predatory men in her unit. Naema suffers bombs, starvation, and the loss of her home and family. As the two women struggle to survive and hold on to the people they love, each comes to have a drastic and unforeseeable effect on the other’s life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCulled from real life experiences of female soldiers and Iraqis, \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e offers a story of hope, courage and struggle from the rare perspective of women at war.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is \u003ci\u003eThe Things They Carried \u003c\/i\u003efor women in Iraq . . . feels right and true.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Every war eventually yields works of art which transcend politics and  history and illuminate our shared humanity. Helen Benedict’s brilliant  new novel has done just that with this century’s American war in Iraq. \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e is an important book by one our finest literary artists.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Robert Olen Butler \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Benedict interviewed around 40 female veterans of the war in Iraq to tell this completely heartbreaking, vivid story of the particular difficulties of being not just a soldier, but a female soldier.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bustle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of this year’s best new novels about war.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR, \u003ci\u003eTo the Best of Our Knowledge\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] thrilling and thoughtful new novel . . . [Kate] is a character readers won't soon forget.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny, shocking, painful, and, at times, deeply disturbing, \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e takes readers beyond the news and onto the battlefield.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This bleak novel explores the horrendous impact of the Iraq war on women, both soldiers and civilians . . . [an] unforgettable testament.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An eye-opening glimpse into a life that many Americans have never seen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Told in compellingly vivid detail with the clear ring of truth every step of the way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Free Lance-Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you missed out on serving in the Iraq War, you can, if you're willing, be catapulted right into the midst of some of its more challenging moments courtesy of Ms. Benedict's gutsy prose. Her interviews with over 40 female veterans show up as action flow and dialogue in \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e, a novel that will leave you deeply unsettled if not shaken to the root of your being.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Herald-Dispatch\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Every war eventually yields works of art which transcend politics and history and illuminate our shared humanity. Helen Benedict’s brilliant new novel has done just that with this century’s American war in Iraq. \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e is an important book by one our finest literary artists.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Robert Olen Butler \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Helen Benedict’s compelling story provides an intimate picture of what it means to be a soldier, what it’s like to live on the battlefield, and what the ethical choices are that our troops have had to make in Iraq. Benedict tells her story from two perspectives—that of a young American woman—a soldier—and a young Iraqi woman—a medical student—both of whose worlds are ravaged by the war. At times funny, at times grimly painful, \u003ci\u003eSand Queen\u003c\/i\u003e offers a new chapter in contemporary American history.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Roxana Robinson, author of \u003ci\u003eCost \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSweetwater\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Every American who claims to value the lives of our soldiers should read this powerful, harrowing, and revelatory novel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Valerie Martin, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Ghost of Mary Celeste\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms. Benedict pulls off this audacious gambit because she is an exceptional writer and storyteller. Her gritty depiction of a soldier’s life in the Iraq desert is particularly well done. \u003ci\u003eSand Queen \u003c\/i\u003eis powerful precisely because Helen Benedict is so pissed off.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A convincing and affecting portrait of two resilient young women caught up in war.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In writing what might be the first major woman’s war story and alternating points of view between opposing sides, Columbia professor Helen Benedict has created something enormously fresh and immediate on this sadly ancient topic.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Chronogram.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for the work of Helen Benedict\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A stunning chronicle of abuses suffered by women enlisted in the U.S. Army and serving in Iraq.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Benedict, an author of both fiction and nonfiction (\u003ci\u003eSailor’s Wife\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eVirgin or Vamp\u003c\/i\u003e), offers distinctive cross-cultural insights as well as a cadre of satiric and fascinating characters, and the result is a story that is both touching and humorous. Highly recommended.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Benedict offers an engaging, lush portrait of envy, desire, and the insatiable lure of the exotic and unknown.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An armchair traveler’s delight, Benedict’s novel is an amusingly poignant look at the British abroad in the spirit of Evelyn Waugh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A comedy of bad manners reminiscent of Evelyn Waugh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Daily News\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Benedict has written a novel lush with exoticism yet rooted, finally, in the common experience of what it is to love.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eWomen’s Review of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eThe Edge of Eden\u003c\/i\u003e] reads as though it could have been written in the early 20th century, right alongside of the work of Evelyn Waugh and W. Somerset Maugham . . . [a] dangerous, mesmerizing tale.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eCleveland Plain-Dealer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"The Lonely Soldier\u003c\/i\u003e is an important book, a crucial accounting of the shameful war on women who gave their bodies, lives and souls for their country.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e─Eve Ensler, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Vagina Monologues\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"A beautifully written novel by a most entertaining and accomplished writer . . . compelling, intelligent, insightful.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oscar Hijuelos, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eHelen Benedict, a Columbia University professor, has written four previous novels, five nonfiction books, and a play. Her novels have received citations for best book of the year from the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e and the Chicago and New York Public Libraries.[ K A T E ]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIT'S THE BIGGEST frigging spider I’ve ever seen in my\u003cbr\u003elife. From one hairy leg to the other, the whole thing’s as long\u003cbr\u003eas my forearm. So I make sure it’s dead first. Nudge it with\u003cbr\u003ethe butt of my rifle till it flips over, limp and sandy. Then I\u003cbr\u003epick it up by a leg, haul it into the tent like a shopping bag\u003cbr\u003eand nail it to the pole beside the head of my cot, right under\u003cbr\u003emy crucifix. That should keep Macktruck quiet, at least for\u003cbr\u003ethe time being. He’s terrified of spiders. Asshole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe whistling is loud outside the tent today; a creepy,\u003cbr\u003eskin-prickling sound I can never get used to. The desert\u003cbr\u003ewhistles all day and night out here. The hissing whistle of\u003cbr\u003ethe wind cutting past your helmet. The moaning whistle of\u003cbr\u003eit winnowing through the razor wire. I stand under the hot\u003cbr\u003ecanvas a moment, just listening. And then it hits me again,\u003cbr\u003ethat deep-down ache that makes me want to curl up and cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What the fuck are you doing, Brady?” It’s Will Rickman,\u003cbr\u003ethis bony young specialist in my squad with zitty skin\u003cbr\u003eand an Adam’s apple twice the size of his brain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wipe my hands on my pants. “Nothing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRickman steps closer and squints at my spider. “Look at\u003cbr\u003ethat thing. It’s disgusting. It’s fuckin’ bleeding black ooze.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t talk like that about Fuzzy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRickman raises his eyebrows. But all he says is, “Let’s go,\u003cbr\u003ethey’re waiting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pick up my rifle and follow him, sunglasses over my\u003cbr\u003eeyes, scarf over my mouth. Ducking against the wind, the\u003cbr\u003esand whipping into my cheeks, I run to the Humvee and\u003cbr\u003ecram into the back behind the other guy in my team, DJ,\u003cbr\u003eand our squad leader, Staff Sergeant Kormick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We got better things to do than wait while you powder\u003cbr\u003eyour nose, Brady,” Kormick shouts to me over the wind,\u003cbr\u003eshoving the Humvee into gear with a grinding wrench.\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t keep us waiting again. Got it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Got it, Sar’nt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile we drive along the dirt road to the checkpoint,\u003cbr\u003ethe guys shooting their usual bull, I gaze out the slit of a\u003cbr\u003eback window into the early morning light. Dirty gray sand\u003cbr\u003estretches as far as I can see, blending so exactly with the\u003cbr\u003edust-filled sky it obliterates the horizon. On either side of\u003cbr\u003ethe road are rows of rectangular olive-drab tents, their roofs\u003cbr\u003edroopy and covered in dust. The ones on the left are for us,\u003cbr\u003ethe ones on the right behind the loops of razor wire are for\u003cbr\u003ethe prisoners. But other than that, there’s nothing out there\u003cbr\u003ebut an endless gray blur. And a tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like that tree, standing outside the wire all by itself in\u003cbr\u003ethe middle of the desert. I call it Marvin. I spend so many\u003cbr\u003ehours staring at Marvin that I know every twist of his wiry\u003cbr\u003elittle branches, every pinpoint of his needle leaves. I talk to\u003cbr\u003ehim sometimes, compare notes on how we’re doing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe rattle along for twenty minutes or so, while I sit in\u003cbr\u003ea daze, too tired to line up my thoughts in any kind of an\u003cbr\u003eorder. We work twelve-to-fifteen-hour shifts, and even so\u003cbr\u003eI can never sleep. It’s too damn hot and I’m sharing a tent\u003cbr\u003ewith thirty-three snoring, farting members of the male sex,\u003cbr\u003enot to mention the prisoners only a few meters away, chanting\u003cbr\u003eand screaming all night long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we near the checkpoint, the deep-down ache starts up\u003cbr\u003eagain. I hate this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSure enough, there they are. Fifty or so civilians waiting\u003cbr\u003eoutside the wire, baggy clothes flapping in the wind.\u003cbr\u003eThey’ve been coming every day for weeks now, arriving at\u003cbr\u003edawn to stand in the sun for hours without moving, like\u003cbr\u003eshrubs. Most of them are women. Mothers and sisters, wives\u003cbr\u003eand daughters looking for their men.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKormick pulls the Humvee up to the checkpoint and we\u003cbr\u003eclimb out. Hitching my rifle strap over my shoulder, I head\u003cbr\u003efor the wire with my team, the sand blowing up my nose\u003cbr\u003eand down my throat, making me cough. God, what I would\u003cbr\u003egive for a breath of clear air, one that isn’t filled with dust\u003cbr\u003eand the stink of burning shit and diesel. Air like the air at\u003cbr\u003ehome: clean, cool, mountain air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brady!” Kormick yells after me, beckoning me back\u003cbr\u003ewith a jerk of his head. “When you get over there tell the\u003cbr\u003ehajjis we’ll mail them a list soon. And make ’em fuck off.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, Sar’nt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And Brady? Get a move on this time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m not any slower than anybody else, but I do what he\u003cbr\u003esays. What list he’s talking about, though, I have no idea.\u003cbr\u003eThere isn’t any list. And even if we did have one, how in\u003cbr\u003eChrist’s name am I supposed to tell these people, “We’ll mail\u003cbr\u003eyou a list of the prisoners” when we just bombed all their\u003cbr\u003ehouses and mailboxes, too—if they even have mailboxes in\u003cbr\u003eIraq?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen we drove through Basra on the way here from\u003cbr\u003eKuwait in March, right after Shock and Awe and the start\u003cbr\u003eof the war, it was flattened. Nothing but smoldering rubble.\u003cbr\u003ePeople living in lean-tos made of cardboard and scrap.\u003cbr\u003eGarbage piled so high you couldn’t see over it, making the\u003cbr\u003eworst goddamn stink I’ve ever smelled in my life. Corpses\u003cbr\u003elying in the streets, smashed and gory, like those run-down\u003cbr\u003edeer on the highways at home, only with human faces. But\u003cbr\u003eKormick always gives me the job of talking to these people.\u003cbr\u003eHe’s got the idea that the sight of a female soldier will win\u003cbr\u003etheir hearts and minds. We’ve just pulverized their towns,\u003cbr\u003elocked up their men and killed their kids, and one GI Jane\u003cbr\u003ewith sand up her ass is supposed to make it okay?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe minute I step in front of the checkpoint wire, the\u003cbr\u003esame old havoc begins: civilians shouldering each other to\u003cbr\u003eget near me, waving photographs and screeching. A checkpoint\u003cbr\u003eis supposed to be secure, but ours is nothing but a plywood\u003cbr\u003eshack no bigger than a garden shed, a rickety wooden\u003cbr\u003etower, a razor-wire fence and a handful of badly trained\u003cbr\u003ereservists with guns. And sand, of course. Lots and lots of\u003cbr\u003esand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Imagine being on an empty beach looking out at the\u003cbr\u003eocean,” I wrote to Tyler once. “Now take away the ocean\u003cbr\u003eand replace it with sand all the way to the end of the frigging\u003cbr\u003eworld. That’s where I am.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI miss Tyler so bad. The soapy smell of his hair, the\u003cbr\u003ewarmth of his big body up against mine. And his eyes—\u003cbr\u003ehe has the prettiest brown eyes you ever saw. Cinnamon\u003cbr\u003eeyes. We’ve been dating since eleventh grade, which is\u003cbr\u003efunny ’cause when I first met him I didn’t like him at all.\u003cbr\u003eI was into class clowns those days, show-offy bad boys, not\u003cbr\u003equiet, nerdy types like Tyler McAllister, who mumbled and\u003cbr\u003eblushed whenever we talked. But then he invited me to see\u003cbr\u003ehim play guitar and sing at a place called The Orange Dog,\u003cbr\u003eand I was so surprised that a geek like him even played guitar\u003cbr\u003eI said yes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Orange Dog’s in Catskill and the closest thing to\u003cbr\u003ea music club we have in our corner of upstate New York,\u003cbr\u003ealthough it doesn’t serve alcohol, which is the only reason\u003cbr\u003emy parents allowed me to go there at seventeen. I asked\u003cbr\u003emy best friend Robin to come with me because we made a\u003cbr\u003egood boy-hunting team: Robin tall and dark, with creamy\u003cbr\u003eskin and big brown eyes; me small and freckled, with frizzy\u003cbr\u003ered hair and eyes so light they’re almost no color at all. She\u003cbr\u003epicked me up in her rusty, third-hand Saturn and drove us\u003cbr\u003ethe forty minutes south it takes to get to Catskill from Willowglen,\u003cbr\u003eour hometown. That was a big-deal expedition for\u003cbr\u003eus back then.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon as we walked into the club, I felt happy. It smelled\u003cbr\u003eof wood and beer (it had once been a bar), just like a music\u003cbr\u003eclub should. On one side was a counter, where you could\u003cbr\u003ebuy hippie things like carrot cake and iced mocha. Scattered\u003cbr\u003earound were ratty old couches and chairs that the owners\u003cbr\u003eprobably rescued from the town dump. Colored lampshades\u003cbr\u003ehung low from the ceiling, making pools of soft light over\u003cbr\u003ethe mismatched coffee tables—the place looked like a living\u003cbr\u003eroom after it’s been trashed at a party, which I thought was\u003cbr\u003eperfect. Robin bought us each a root beer, and we sank into\u003cbr\u003ea couple of stained red armchairs and stretched out our legs\u003cbr\u003eto admire our tight jeans and high-heel boots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe club filled up pretty quick. Farm boys and local teenagers\u003cbr\u003eon the lookout for girls. A few boozy old men who’d\u003cbr\u003eprobably stumbled in by mistake. Me and Robin smirked at\u003cbr\u003eeach other. We were much more sophisticated than any of\u003cbr\u003ethose folks. They were hicks. We, of course, weren’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had no idea what to expect from Tyler that night, if this\u003cbr\u003ewas a date or if he was just collecting an audience. I didn’t\u003cbr\u003eknow a lot about boys yet, since I’ve got no brothers and I’d\u003cbr\u003enever had a regular boyfriend. Every boy I’d tried dating had\u003cbr\u003eturned out to be either a two-timing dipshit or stunningly\u003cbr\u003edumb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo we sat there, Robin tall and graceful, me short and\u003cbr\u003egingery, until they finally turned off the music and lights\u003cbr\u003eand shone a wobbly spotlight on a single high stool on the\u003cbr\u003estage. Then Tyler walked on, looking way cooler than I ever\u003cbr\u003eimagined he could, with an acoustic guitar slung over his\u003cbr\u003eshoulder, a tight black T-shirt and long hair swinging into\u003cbr\u003ehis eyes. He perched on the stool, like a million other singers\u003cbr\u003ehave, I guess, his guitar on one knee, and I don’t know\u003cbr\u003ewhy, but suddenly I was ridiculously nervous. I felt like I’d\u003cbr\u003eknown him for years. Like the two of us had been waiting\u003cbr\u003efor this performance all our lives, working for it, building\u003cbr\u003eup to it. Like this was going to make him or break him and\u003cbr\u003eI really cared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater that night I found out that Tyler wasn’t a geek at\u003cbr\u003eall. He was just in love with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was two years ago, and a whole lot of shit’s happened\u003cbr\u003esince then. Tyler’s in college now, back at home,\u003cbr\u003estudying music and playing gigs. And I’m stuck in the middle\u003cbr\u003eof this frigging desert, like I’ve been for almost three\u003cbr\u003emonths, surrounded by jabbering civilians and wondering\u003cbr\u003ewhat the fuck I’m doing here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon this old couple pushes through the crowd and hustles\u003cbr\u003eup to me, the woman clutching her husband’s arm. They\u003cbr\u003eboth look unbelievably ancient and withered. The woman\u003cbr\u003eis draped from head to toe in black, her cheeks lined with a\u003cbr\u003emillion tiny cracks, her dark eyes watering under her wrinkly\u003cbr\u003ebrow. The man is white-haired and knotty, with a tiny\u003cbr\u003ebrown face like a walnut. Holding each other tight, they\u003cbr\u003ehobble up close, and that’s when they realize I’m a female.\u003cbr\u003eThe usual snort of surprise, like I’m some clown the U.S.\u003cbr\u003emilitary shipped out for their entertainment. Then they try\u003cbr\u003eto press the advantage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lady, look,” the old man says in a garble that sounds\u003cbr\u003evaguely like English, and his wife pushes a photo at me with\u003cbr\u003ea trembling hand. “My son. He here? Does he live?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look at it, not because I’m interested but because that’s\u003cbr\u003emy job. A wide-eyed Arab with a Saddam mustache, same\u003cbr\u003eas a million others. I nod like I know him and the old couple\u003cbr\u003egets real excited. The woman even smiles, five teeth missing.\u003cbr\u003eHer whole wrinkly face is so full of hope that I have to\u003cbr\u003eturn away. We have seven thousand prisoners in this place\u003cbr\u003eand more coming in every day. How the hell am I supposed\u003cbr\u003eto know anything from some crappy old snapshot?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If he’s here, I’m sure he’s safe,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you, thank you lady soldier!” the old man answers,\u003cbr\u003ehis voice quavering. That makes me feel bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Go home now,” I tell him and the crowd. “When we\u003cbr\u003ehave a list of the detainees we’ll let you know. But you gotta\u003cbr\u003ego now.” I wave my arms in a shooing motion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing changes. The civilians just keep pressing around\u003cbr\u003eme, hollering and shoving their goddamn photos into my\u003cbr\u003eface. I shouldn’t even be here by myself in the middle of a\u003cbr\u003ebunch of locals like this—one of them could shoot my head\u003cbr\u003eoff any second. I glance over my shoulder. Where the hell\u003cbr\u003eis zit-face Rickman? He’s supposed to be my battle buddy,\u003cbr\u003eout here with me, watching my back. But no, he’s over\u003cbr\u003ebehind the wire, nice and safe, chewing the fat with PFC\u003cbr\u003eBonaparte, popularly known as Boner. I’m alone. As usual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Girl, why you balled-up in the bedclothes there? Come on\u003cbr\u003eout now, or I’ll pull you out myself, like I did yesterday. You\u003cbr\u003edidn’t like that, did you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYesterday? The soldier can’t remember yesterday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA wave of cold as the nurse pulls off the sheet. Wet gown\u003cbr\u003ebunched and piss-stinky. Back throbbing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, honey. You had a rough night, huh? Come on, up\u003cbr\u003eyou get and we’ll wash you nice and clean.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe nurse wraps her big arms around the soldier and drags\u003cbr\u003eher out of the hospital bed, wet and reeking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nurse and the soldier dancing the waltz of shame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302459953381,"sku":"NP9781616951849","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951849.jpg?v=1767736093","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/sand-queen-isbn-9781616951849","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}