Kevin Wade Johnson
She ran out of the smoke straight to me. Gunshots and explosions boomed somewhere behind her. Fires flared. Dark-haired, dirty, and dressed drab, same as everyone else here in Bethlehem. Three years old? Four? I wasn't that good with kids then. I was slow. She'd grabbed onto my one leg, choking back sobs, before I could shoot her. Look, sorry, but too many kids were being used in this filthy little "uprising." Some had frag's or incendiaries taped onto them, under their clothes. I kept one hand on my M-7's trigger while I reached down with the other. Put my hand on her head. Gently. I'd always been good at sizing people up, once I could spend a moment, anyway. Always had a weak spot for kids. Or I'm just plain stupid. My heart turned over as the little girl cried against my body armor. "Hey," I said. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll track down your Mom and Dad. Your family. We'll get you back to them." She just cried harder. Never did find any relatives of hers in that inhumane mess. Never even found anyone who knew her, or could say what her name was. Worst day of her life, I bet, although she denies it. It might have seemed like one of the worst of mine, too, except in the long run, where it was one of the best. Saved me, in the long run. And saved the world. Worlds.
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