Ethan did not resist. He climbed aboard and sat among the others.
The flatbed was crowded with refugees and sacks filled with things. Among them stood a young girl, possibly in her teens, small and slight, with striking amber-colored eyes that seemed to glow in the moonlight.
When Ethan looked at her, she smiled shyly. He found himself smiling back without thinking much.
Every head turned toward him.
Even the old women stared, startled by the beauty.
The moonlight fell across Ethan's new features, softening his sharp jaw and highlighting the inhuman symmetry of his face.
The desert wind carried his hair slightly, adding an unintentional grace.
Ethan, uncomfortable with the attention, cleared his throat, and people averted their gaze.
The children approached him first, noses running, small hands dusted with sand. They poked at his arms and shoulders, whispering excitedly in their own language. Ethan let them.
With his hands bound, pushing them away would've looked like he was kicking children—hardly the first impression he wanted to make. He didn't care much about his social image, but right now he couldn't afford to antagonize anyone.
The girl with amber eyes stepped forward and gently shooed the children aside.
They obeyed her instantly, scattering to one corner.
She settled near him, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his.
Ethan inhaled, and the faint scent of her sweat reached him. It should have been unpleasant. Filthy people without proper hygiene would have been unbearable to the man he once was.
Yet something about her scent felt warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way he could not explain.
Talia sat cross-legged in front of Ethan, moonlight flickering over her amber eyes as the truck rocked along the dirt road. She tapped her chest. "Talia." Then she pointed at him. "You?"
Ethan blinked. Words swirled in his mind like smoke he could almost catch. "E… Ethan."
"Good. Ethan." She repeated it slowly, exaggerating the vowels. "Where. Are. You. From?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came. Now everything felt like someone had thrown a thin blanket over his mind. He knew these sounds, these shapes, but they slid away the moment he reached for them.
Talia tried again. "You understand me?" She gestured around. "We are in Libya. Desert. War."
He caught one word. War. That one sat heavy and familiar. He repeated it softly. "War."
Her smile grew. "Yes. War. You learn fast."
Salman, broad-shouldered and sunburned along the back of his neck, muttered something under his breath to Baruch. Baruch, wiry and sharp-eyed, only shrugged and continued watching Ethan from the cabin, his gaze fixed with the wary patience of a man half-expecting horns to sprout.
By nightfall, Ethan had absorbed a handful of words. By the following morning, that number had grown into dozens. By the end of the second day, he was forming full sentences, hesitant but intact. When evening came, the language no longer stalled in his mouth.
Salman stared at him for a long moment. "You are telling me you did not understand a single word two days ago?" He glanced sideways at Talia. "He is lying. He must have been listening in secret."
Talia shook her head. "He repeats words exactly as he hears them," she said. "As if he remembers something and it suddenly fits into place. Nobody learns an accent that fast."
Baruch rubbed at his chin. "Unless he is a spy pretending to be slow."
Ethan raised his bound hands slightly. "If I were a spy, would I still be tied like a goat?" His accent was nearly flawless now.
Laughter rippled through the truck, short and uneasy, but it thinned the tension all the same.
Rochel, the older woman with grey hair braided tight against her scalp, passed him a metal cup. "Drink," she said. "You look like a ghost."
"Thank you," Ethan replied, accepting it.
From the corner, Shmuel, wrinkled and missing a leg, leaned forward. "My granddaughter teaches you for two days and suddenly you speak better than us," he said, grinning wide enough to show his gums. "Not fair."
Talia nudged him. "At least he listens. Unlike you."
The children climbed over the sacks, passing smooth stones back and forth. One boy stepped forward proudly. "My name is Avi. I am six. I can throw very far."
He threw. The stone landed only a few feet from his toes.
Ethan clapped anyway.
Every mile they crossed carried more stories. Salman explained the factions as they drove through the shifting sand.
"This land is split between the monsters in grey and the monsters in khaki," he said. "Your uniform puts you in the first group. Italians and Germans. The second group is British, some French and local resistance. Both stomp on us the same."
Talia drew lines in the dust with her finger. "Our village chose neutral. It did not matter. Some people came. They killed my parents. My brother. Almost everyone." Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady. "We survived only because we were out gathering water."
Ethan looked at his own pale wrist, at the red armband he still wore. "I understand why you tied me up. I would have done the same."
Baruch sniffed. "Thought you were one of them. Or a slave. Or a tourist who got unlucky."
Rochel added, "Your skin is so pale I assumed you hid underground for months."
Salman finally sighed, cut the last rope, and pulled it free from Ethan's wrists. "I believe you now. A normal soldier would not have learned three languages this fast. Unless you are possessed by jinn." He glanced sideways. "You are not possessed, right?"
"I hope not," Ethan replied.
The group's intention was simple, if not hopeful. They meant to get out of the country and leave the fighting behind them, whatever the cost.
The plan itself was plain and born of necessity. They would reach a small port called Buerat, take a boat that did not belong to them, and cross the water into British-held Egypt. From there, they would try to reach friends in the British-India army or make contact with one of the relief groups still operating along the coast. After that, there were no certainties, only the faint possibility of distance from the violence they had already seen too much of.
The desert offered little cooperation. Twice they veered close to checkpoints, engines idling low, breath held until the danger slid past.
On one occasion, Ethan stepped out alone. He straightened the stolen uniform, set his shoulders, and addressed two suspicious German soldiers in halting, clipped phrases, just convincing enough to earn a dismissive wave and passage onward.
By the time they reached the river mouth near the port, night had settled fully over the land. They crouched among tall reeds while patrol boats of the Afrika Korps tore across the dark water, engines roaring as they swept past without slowing.
Ethan helped Salman and Baruch push a small fishing boat into the water. The engine coughed alive with a shudder. Everyone sighed with relief.
But the patrol boat circled back, for some reason.
Floodlights swept the bank. Four soldiers in DAK uniforms stormed towards them shouting orders.
Ethan felt suspicion settle on him the moment they saw his uniform. One soldier grabbed Ethan by the collar and dragged him aside.
The others kicked Salman and Baruch to their knees, and forced Shmuel down as well. Children screamed until a soldier raised his rifle and barked at them to be silent.
"Strip," one soldier ordered the men. "We need to check for resistance tattoos."
The mothers pulled the children close, trying to cover their eyes. One soldier snarled, "Quiet, or I make you quiet."
Rivka, Salman's wife, trembled as another soldier stepped toward her. He grabbed her arms, sliding his hands over her body with obvious malice.
Ethan tried to speak. "Stop. They are civilians. I can explain."
The soldier who'd been hovering near Ethan finally stepped in. His boots scraped on the dirt as he closed the distance, shoulders squared like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Without warning, he drove his fist straight into Ethan's gut. A brutal, practiced punch that knocked the breath out of him.
Ethan folded forward, a sharp grunt escaping before he could stop it.
"Stay here, du Vaterlandsverrater," the soldier snarled.
Rivka screamed when rough hands started moving under her clothes.
Salman's expression twisted. Fear. Rage. Desperation. His fingers slipped toward the pistol he had hidden in his shirt. The one taken from Ethan.
He ripped it free.
"Get away from her! Khanzeer!" Salman fired.
The shot cracked like lightning. It hit nothing but reeds.
The nearest soldier reacted instantly. He slammed his rifle butt into Salman's jaw with a sickening thud and kicked him down. Another soldier grabbed Salman's arm and twisted it.
The horrible crack sent shivers down everyone's spine.
Salman howled, collapsing in the sand.
Baruch lunged to help him. A muzzle flashed. The shot blasted into Baruch's thigh, spinning him sideways. He dropped, blood soaking into the earth as he clutched the wound, teeth grinding from pain.
"Move again and I finish you," the shooter warned, gun still smoking.
The one soldier holding Rivka started laughing and pulled up her thobe. "Get down Hure."
Rochel dragged two of the screaming kids into her arms and covered their eyes. Her old voice shook as she prayed under her breath. Other women also hugged each other and surrounded the kids, trying to protect them from the horrible sight.
Two soldiers then turned to Talia.
She backed away, arms tight around herself, breathing hard.
One soldier grinned. "Sehr schönes Mädchen."
The other added, "Perfekt für Spaß, bevor wir sie zum Hauptmann bringen."
They grabbed her by both arms. She fought, but they dragged her to the side easily.
"Strip," one hissed.
He leaned closer, giving a crooked smile. "Alles. Everything."