Shot Down I am scared. My heart is racing, and my arm burns, the very bone aching. The bullet has lodged itself deep- my new greatest fear is that the wound has grown so deep that it will never heal, or that it will become infected. A revolutionary without an arm is a liability, to herself and others. Only a few hours ago, I stumbled down the metal stairway into this basement, clanging down the peeling paint as my comrades fended off more gunshots. Someone held my good arm, their meaty hand at the small of my back as they pushed me into the linoleum-tiled room of cream-painted cinderblocks. It looks like the cafeteria of my old elementary school. I remember panting, and trying to talk, but I do not remember exactly what I said. I know what it might have been. How many are hurt? Who? Is Elizabeth alright? Jordan? Satcheral? Please, god, tell me Ariel