Laila hardly recognized anybody on the streets anymore.
Hasina's family had fled in May, off to Tehran. Wajma and her clan had gone to Islamabad that same month.
Giti's parents and her siblings left in June, shortly after Giti was killed.
Laila didn't know where they had gone; she heard a rumor that they had headed for Mashad, in Iran.
After people left, their homes sat unoccupied for a few days, then either militiamen took them or strangers moved in.
Everyone was leaving. And now Tariq too. “And my mother is not a young woman anymore,” he was saying.
“They're so afraid all the time. Laila, look at me.” “You should have told me.” “Please look at me.”
A groan came out of Laila. Then a wail. And then she was crying,
and when he went to wipe her cheek with the pad of his thumb she swiped his hand away.
It was selfish and irrational, but she was furious with him for abandoning her, Tariq,
who was like an extension of her, whose shadow sprung beside hers in every memory.
How could he leave her? She slapped him. Then she slapped him again and pulled at his hair, and he had to take her by the wrists,
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