“People who've been injured because of war,” Giti said earnestly, oblivious to Hasina's toying.
“I think Mullah Giti here has a crush on Tariq. I knew it! Ha! But he's already spoken for, don't you know? Isn't he, Laila?”
“I do not have a crush. On anyone!” They broke off from Laila, and, still arguing this way, turned in to their street.
Laila walked alone the last three blocks. When she was on her street, she noticed that the blue Benz was still parked there,
outside Rasheed and Mariam's house. The elderly man in the brown suit was standing by the hood now, leaning on a cane, looking up at the house.
That was when a voice behind Laila said, “Hey. Yellow Hair. Look here.”
Laila turned around and was greeted by the barrel of a gun.
17.
The gun was red, the trigger guard bright green. Behind the gun loomed Khadim's grinning face.
Khadim was eleven, like Tariq. He was thick, tall, and had a severe underbite.
His father was a butcher in Deh Mazang, and, from time to time, Khadim was known to fling bits of calf intestine at passersby.
Sometimes, if Tariq wasn't nearby, Khadim shadowed Laila in the schoolyard at recess, leering, making little whining noises.
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