They sat and smoked atop tanks, dressed in their fatigues and ubiquitous pakols.
They peeked at passersby from behind stacked sandbags at intersections.
Not that Laila went out much anymore. And, when she did, she was always accompanied by Tariq, who seemed to relish this chivalric duty.
“I bought a gun,” he said one day. They were sitting outside, on the ground beneath the pear tree in Laila's yard.
He showed her. He said it was a semiautomatic, a Beretta. To Laila, it merely looked black and deadly.
“I don't like it,” she said. “Guns scare me.” Tariq turned the magazine over in his hand.
“They found three bodies in a house in Karteh Seh last week,” he said. “Did you hear? Sisters. All three raped. Their throats slashed.”
Someone had bitten the rings off their fingers. You could tell, they had teeth marks.
“I don't want to hear this.” “I don't mean to upset you,” Tariq said. “But I just... I feel better carrying this.”
He was her lifeline to the streets now. He heard the word of mouth and passed it on to her.
Tariq was the one who told her, for instance, that militiamen stationed in the mountains sharpened their marksmanship
and settled wagers over said marksmanship by shooting civilians down below, men, women, children, chosen at random.
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