26.
It was, by far, the hottest day of the year. The mountains trapped the bone-scorching heat, stifled the city like smoke.
Power had been out for days. All over Kabul, electric fans sat idle, almost mockingly so.
Laila was lying still on the living room couch, sweating through her blouse. Every exhaled breath burned the tip of her nose.
She was aware of her parents talking in Mammy's room.
Two nights ago, and again last night, she had awakened and thought she heard their voices downstairs.
They were talking every day now, ever since the bullet, ever since the new hole in the gate.
Outside, the far-off boom of artillery, then, more closely, the stammering of a long string of gunfire, followed by another.
Inside Laila too a battle was being waged: guilt on one side, partnered with shame,
and, on the other, the conviction that what she and Tariq had done was not sinful;
that it had been natural, good, beautiful, even inevitable, spurred by the knowledge that they might never see each other again.
Laila rolled to her side on the couch now and tried to remember something:
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