The bullets outside were still whistling through the air. Ryan was gasping for breath, not daring to move even a finger.
He still couldn't understand why that child had stabbed him. Looking at the veteran, he asked fearfully, "Am I going to die?"
The veteran fell silent for several seconds. Those few seconds plunged Ryan into deep despair.
He felt that he probably wouldn't live much longer.
"If I say no, you definitely won't believe me." Several seconds later, the old soldier spoke. "You probably have about ten minutes left. If no one comes to take you to surgery within that time, I'll have no choice but to take your dog tag back."
Ryan instinctively gripped the small metal tag around his neck. It bore his name, work number, and blood type. It was prepared for when he needed blood at the Field Hospital.
Many wartime wounds couldn't wait for the results of a blood-type test, so everyone was tested before joining up. Their blood types were stamped onto their dog tags.
Once they reached the hospital, the doctors could tell what blood to use at a glance, without testing them again. This saved a great deal of time and increased the wounded's chances of survival.
Despair filled Ryan's face. He looked again at the Little Girl collapsed by the doorway, half her head blown away, and asked in disbelief, "Why... why did she do that? I only wanted to give her a piece of candy."
The veteran looked at Ryan and spoke in a peculiar tone, half self-mockery and half sarcasm. "To them, we're invaders, after all..."
That wasn't the whole reason. Most of the people living here were the Maliro People, and the hatred between them and the former ruling class, the Malori People, was difficult to dissolve.