Mammy had had a stomachache all day, and, minutes before, despite the rockets that Hekmatyar was launching from the south,
Babi had taken her to see a doctor. And here was Tariq now, seated beside Laila on the couch, looking at the ground, hands between his knees.
Saying that he was leaving. Not the neighborhood. Not Kabul. But Afghanistan altogether. Leaving. Laila was struck blind.
“Where? Where will you go?” “Pakistan first. Peshawar. Then I don't know. Maybe Hindustan. Iran.”
“How long?” “I don't know.” “I mean, how long have you known?”
“A few days. I was going to tell you, Laila, I swear, but I couldn't bring myself to. I knew how upset you'd be.”
“When?” “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” “Laila, look at me.” “Tomorrow.”
“It's my father. His heart can't take it anymore, all this fighting and killing.”
Laila buried her face in her hands, a bubble of dread filling her chest. She should have seen this coming, she thought.
Almost everyone she knew had packed their things and left.
The neighborhood had been all but drained of familiar faces, and now,
only four months after fighting had broken out between the Mujahideen factions,
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