Tariq clenched his teeth and muttered something to himself in Pashto that Laila didn't catch.
“You wait here,” he said, in Farsi now. “No, Tariq.” He was already crossing the street.
Khadim was the first to see him. His grin faded, and he pushed himself off the wall.
He unhooked his thumbs from the belt loops and made himself more upright, taking on a self-conscious air of menace.
The others followed his gaze. Laila wished she hadn't said anything. What if they banded together?
How many of them were there? ten? eleven? twelve? What if they hurt him?
Then Tariq stopped a few feet from Khadim and his band.
There was a moment of consideration, Laila thought, maybe a change of heart,
and, when he bent down, she imagined he would pretend his shoelace had come undone and walk back to her.
Then his hands went to work, and she understood. The others understood too when Tariq straightened up, standing on one leg.
When he began hopping toward Khadim, then charging him, his unstrapped leg raised high over his shoulder like a sword.
The boys stepped aside in a hurry. They gave him a clear path to Khadim.
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