Jazarah staggered through the snow. People ran in all directions, unsure of where to go but knowing the approaching planes could only promise doom.
She saw tents and shelters and launched herself toward them in deliberate if shaking steps. Her loose desert robes were useless against the cold, however, and she fell.
A moment later an arm scooped her up. It belonged to a big, mustachioed American. A woman with him said in English, “Come on. We’ve got you.”
She pointed at the tents with her blackened fingers.
“We’re going there, too,” the woman said and they carried her forward.