And as the child's fingers squeezed mine, I realized what had happened. They were here. And they had killed this child.

Her pale blue eyes met mine, and a smile played on her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"No," I said. "No, this can't be happening. You'll live. You'll live!"

But the child, only six years old, tops, was growing paler by the second. A pool of blood surround-ed her left leg. She had lost too much of it.

"Go," she said. "Or you'll join me, and the other side."

"What if I want to?" I murmured.

"Selfish," she whispered. "Don't be selfish... Think of-" but she was cut of, her breathing fast and shallow. "Go." Her eyelids fluttered shut, and a knot formed in my chest. It was too tight; I could not untie it, even when I wept, my tears falling onto her dirty face, making muddy tracks down her cheeks.

Her hand fell out of mine, limp, but still a bit warm.

I blew her a kiss, and said, "I hope that you'll have a good time in heaven, sweetie. I should not have let you die."

As I walked away from her body, I knew what she would have said if she were still living; "You could not have saved me."

And I knew, deep down, that she was right.