My father loaded his things onto the back of his old pickup. He curses it every morning. He says that if we sell enough soft drinks, we'll buy another truck that doesn't break down every day and make him yell at me and my uncle.
      Father and my uncle sat in the cab of the pickup, while I went into the rear. Because I am small, I had to hold up the cases of soft drinks and the stacks of magazines, which we have been selling at the American soldier base every day for the last month. I love the base. It has big helicopters and tanks. My friends say that the Americans are seven-foot tall devils, but I don't believe that, because one of them is my friend. His name is Peter. He let me wear his helmet one day after I sold him a Pepsi. He teases me because I do not say his name properly. But he doesn't say my name properly, either.
      This morning, there were a lot of things in the back of the truck for me to hold. That is because last night, Father told my uncle and me that we had to leave early. I asked him why, but he told me to be quiet and hurried me into the truck. We drove really fast back to the village.
      I did a really good job of holding the soft drinks up. Last month, I let them topple over, and Father was so angry at my clumsiness that he beat me until my uncle told him to stop.
      When we reached the base, a few of the American soldiers stopped us at the gate. They usually just let us right in. But one of the important soldiers walked up to the cab with Hamid, one of the Iraqis on the base who can speak both our language and the Americans'. Speaking through Hamid, the American soldier mumbled something to my father and walked away, looking very mad.
      "What did he say, Father?" I asked.
      "Nothing," he said.
      My uncle turned around in his seat. "Something happened last night-"
      "Don't worry about it, child," my father interrupted. "It does not concern you."
      But I did worry. I thought for a moment that the Americans had figured out that my father had taken the soft drinks from the base after the Iraqi army had left it during the war. Now we were selling those soft drinks. My father doesn't know that I know that.
      Just as I thought that the Americans were going to arrest my father, they opened the big gate. A soldier waved us to our usual spot on the base where we set up our things. Once inside, I looked for the big helicopter that was usually parked on its landing pad. But something had happened to it. It was all black and charred, the windows shattered. There was still some smoke coming out of it, and a few of the Americans were shooting water on it with hoses.
      "Father, did someone attack the base last night?" I asked.
      "Keep quiet," he ordered.
      We unloaded our things next to the rubble. Father yelled at me to pay attention when he caught me staring at the helicopter. I turned away from it, but the smell was horrible. It made me choke.
      Once our little stand was ready, I waited for customers. But everyone looked busy. Trucks twice the size of my father's drove by us very quickly, sending up hot clouds of smoke.
      I felt someone tap my shoulder from behind, and I turned around. I saw Peter looking down at me in his dirty soldier outfit. He held out his hand and we did our secret handshake that he taught me when he first met me. I reached up to his helmet, begging to wear it. I had already learned to stop reaching for his gun-he told me enough times that I couldn't play with it.
      He took his helmet off and plopped it on my head. He laughed and said something I could not understand. I played with the straps and then pretended to be a soldier, shooting an imaginary gun. Peter laughed again and pulled the front of the helmet over my eyes.
      "Hey!" I heard an American voice yell.
      I lifted the helmet up to see one of the older soldiers-an officer-walking toward my father. The officer held Hamid by the arm, dragging the smaller man to us. Once he was close enough to talk, he gave Hamid a shove and yelled something at my father, who just stood there with a blank look on his face. My father looked at Hamid.
      "The Captain says that you left early last night," Hamid said.
      "Yes, I had to," my father said.
      Hamid translated this to the Captain, who pointed at my father and yelled again.
      "He says you left last night right before some rockets landed here," Hamid said.
      "No, no, no," my father said, "I didn't know about any rockets."
      Hamid translated. The Captain became even angrier. He stood very close to my father, who kept saying that he didn't know about any attack. The Captain ran his hand under his throat, which silenced my father. Then the Captain spoke, his face red and scowling, while jabbing his finger on my father's chest. When he was done, my father looked to Hamid for a translation, but Hamid just stood there looking like he was going to cry.
      The Captain looked past my father and right at me. He charged over to me, swiped the helmet off of my head, and slammed it in Peter's chest. He screamed something at Peter, and Peter looked very sad and confused. He put his helmet back on. The Captain walked away, and Peter followed, not looking at me.
      "What did he say?" I asked, tears starting to form in my eyes.
      "Go in the truck and get me my water," my father said.
      "But what did he-"
      "Go!"
      I did as he said, but left the truck window open a little so I could hear Hamid's translation.
      "Well," my father said to Hamid.
      The translator looked at the ground.
      "The Captain," Hamid began, clearing his throat. "The Captain says that his boss let you back on the base."
      "And," my father said, twirling his hand impatiently.
      "And that if something like this ever happens again, he'll kill your son right in front of you."
      I sat in the driver's seat and cried until my father came over to me and told me to hurry up with the water.