Currently she’s with Khalid, who’s teaching her Arabic words.
“Qamar,” he says, pointing up at the rising moon. “Moon. Can you say qamar?”
“Mah!” Ella attempts.
“Close! Qamar.”
“Qamar!” she finally gets out, and the whole table erupts in applause.
My heart is so full it might burst. This team, these people, this moment, it’s everything I didn’t know I needed.
After dinner, someone produces a ball from somewhere and Ella is immediately fascinated. She toddles after it as it rolls across the sand near the tent, giggling every time she catches up to it.
“I’ve got her,” I tell Lois—wait, no, Lois isn’t here. I keep forgetting. It’s been nearly two weeks and I still expect to see her. I know she’s doing well in the city. I’ve received a couple of emails from her about the hotel she’s recuperating in, and how she is spending her days knitting in bed and flirting with the hotel manager. She’ll head back to Maine soon. The reality of her not returning to the camp freaked me out at first, but not anymore.
Because things are working out here. Everyone is chipping in with Ella, and Calvin especially has been more of a help than I could have ever predicted.
Since Ella is distracted with the ball, I start clearing the table, helping Fatima collect dishes. The conversation continuesaround us, easy and warm. In the tent opening, I can see Ella banging the ball against the canvas flap.
“Dr. Halford, you don’t need to help,” Fatima protests. “You’ve been working all day.”
“So have you. Many hands make light work, as my grandmother used to say.”
We stack dishes and scrape plates, and I’m so absorbed in the task, and Fatima is telling me about her grandchildren, that I don’t notice right away.
The silence.
Ella isn’t shouting or talking to herself anymore.
I turn around, plates still in my hands, and look toward where I last saw her. The ball is there, sitting in the sand near the tent entrance. But Ella is not.
My stomach jumps into my throat, but I remind myself that this is normal. Toddlers move around, and she has to be just right past the tent flaps.
“Ella?” I set the plates down, walking quickly to the entrance. “Ella, where are you?”
No response. I step outside the tent. The camp is settling into evening, long shadows stretching across the sand. The sun is low on the horizon, painting everything gold and orange. And Ella is nowhere in sight.
“Ella!” My voice is sharper now, panic creeping in. “Ella, answer Mama!”
Still nothing.
My heart starts racing. The desert. She’s in the desert. Alone. A fourteen-month-old in an environment with a dozen ways to get hurt—sharp rocks, equipment, the excavation site with its open pits…
“She was just here,” I say, my voice rising. “She was just right here. I only looked away for a minute!”
“Georgia.” Calvin appears beside me, and his voice is calm. Steady. “When did you last see her?”
“A minute ago. Less. She was in the entrance…”
“Which direction?”
“I don’t— I wasn’t—” I can’t breathe properly. “Calvin, she’s fourteen months old; she can’t have gone far—but what if she fell? What if?—”
“She didn’t fall. She wandered. Toddlers wander.” He’s already scanning the area, methodical and calm. “Everyone, spread out three sixty degrees. Check around and inside the tents. She’s probably just exploring.”
The team mobilizes immediately. Khalid checks behind the supply tent. Edmond heads toward the work area. Dr. Akkhad searches the dining tent, calling Ella’s name.
I’m frozen, my mind spiraling through worst-case scenarios. This is the desert. There are scorpions, snakes, equipment that could crush her, vehicles she could climb under…
