The Distance Between Us by Masha Hamilton

The mustachioed militiaman who collected their cards strides out of the hut, shaking his head as though he's uncovered a plot. He motions. Their driver -- what's his name? Hussein? Mohammed? -- glances back without meeting anyone's eyes. Grains of sweat darken his temples and bead above his lips. He slides from the jeep, taking the keys with him, as if these journalists were inmates, plotting to drive off and leave him behind in the vacuous Lebanese landscape. Christ.

The gunman speaks to the driver in a dull slur that Caddie can't make out. Their guard is still swaying, his AK-47 balanced delicately in his arms and pointed in their direction. The crickets grow loud, unusual for midday.

The driver shuffles back and passes out press cards. Three.

"Excuse me," Marcus says. "Where's mine?"

The driver shrugs.

"Brilliant." Marcus swings out of the jeep, the two Nikons around his neck bouncing.

Their pear-belly guard stiffens, aiming his gun at Marcus's chest. Caddie reaches from the Land Rover to try to grab Marcus's arm, but he's too far away.

"Okay, okay." Marcus raises his hands. "I need my card back. Card. Back. Comprenez?"

The guard holds his gun steady.

"Tell him, Catherine." He's still grinning, still outwardly confident that this adventure is manageable, no more threatening than a Ferris wheel ride. But Caddie knows he drops her nickname only at serious moments.

"My colleague, please, must have his press identification," Caddie says in Arabic, addressing both militiamen, trying for a there-must-be-a-small-mistake smile. "Then we will depart, thank you."

The mustachioed militiaman speaks shotgun-fast to the driver -- to Caddie it sounds like "these beans should be fried again in Syria" -- and the driver listens without expression. Caddie's Arabic isn't bad, but now she wishes, deeply, for a better grasp of local colloquialisms.

Another man emerges from the hut. Shirtless, skinny and muscular, he appears younger than the others. His face is creased in irritation. His hair sticks up in tufts as though he's been unwillingly roused from bed. Carrying no weapon, he walks with shoulders high, hands alert, fingers slightly extended. Caddie's tongue suddenly tastes metallic.

"You still here?" The shirtless man speaks in English.

"I need my identification card." Marcus enunciates as if to a child. "What a fashla," he says to Caddie in an aside, using the Arabic for "mess-up."

The young tough squints. "What you want?" he asks in English, in a tone that convinces Caddie the best answer would be "nothing."

Marcus chuckles. "This guy speaks pretty good caveman."

Caddie speaks sharply, quietly. "Shit, Marcus. Shut. Up."

Yes, this sleepy-eyed militiaman is a fool, made silly by the handful of power he holds over a hut and two armed men. But Marcus, it's clear, has a case of Superman Disorder, the disease that worms its way into journalists, fooling them into believing they're so seasoned, their instincts so developed, that every risk is manageable. That even the clouds and the dirt will back off in their presence. That a little cockiness will simply give them Godspeed. She's avoided that pit of overconfidence. So has Marcus, until now. She shoots him a pointed look. He seems to need reminding that this is not a disciplined army. These are thugs led by a man who smuggles and kidnaps and kills. They let mood swings, and a very personal interpretation of Allah's will, dictate when and where they fire their guns.

"C'mon, Marcus. Let's get out of here," she says.

"I don't go without my card." Marcus takes a step forward and speaks in one long breath. "We're more than happy to scoot, you bloody bloke, but first, it would be brilliant if you could go peek under your pillow and see if you can find a little card, one with my face on it." He finishes with an ersatz smile.

The shirtless boy fighter surely can't understand much of Marcus's racetrack sentences or clipped accent. But he leans forward attentively as if examining vermin, then pushes closer to their Land Rover, bringing with him the scent of barbecued onions. He glances in Caddie's direction, then grips Sven's arm. "Go," he says in English, shoving Sven and motioning at their driver. "Go!" The word comes out guttural.

"Bit testy, aren't you?" Marcus remains jaunty, but he's finally edging back toward the jeep.

"Still, I think it's a good suggestion," Sven says, sounding strained.

The baby-faced guard, gratingly calm, lets off a shot into the dirt that produces a pregnant swell of dust. He levels his gun and jerks it to motion their driver forward. The driver shifts into gear. Caddie grabs Marcus's arm and tugs him back into the vehicle as the driver punches the gas pedal.

"My card," cries Marcus mock-meekly, raising his arms in an empty-handed gesture. Having lost, he's clearly decided to treat this as good fun. "Why my card?"

"Why my wife?" Rob speaks over the engine noise. "Life is arbitrary."