Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her, Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor,
in the shape of a house or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them.
She drew elephants for Aziza the way Jalil had shown her, in one stroke, without ever lifting the tip of the pen.
Rasheed said civilians were getting killed daily, by the dozens. Hospitals and stores holding medical supplies were getting shelled.
Vehicles carrying emergency food supplies were being barred from entering the city, he said, raided, shot at.
Mariam wondered if there was fighting like this in Herat too, and, if so, how Mullah Faizullah was coping,
if he was still alive, and Bibijo too, with all her sons, brides, and grandchildren.
And, of course, Jalil. Was he hiding out, Mariam wondered, as she was?
Or had he taken his wives and children and fled the country?
She hoped Jalil was somewhere safe, that he'd managed to get away from all of this killing.
For a week, the fighting forced even Rasheed to stay home.
He locked the door to the yard, set booby traps, locked the front door too and barricaded it with the couch.
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