“I do. I did. I...” Even with the burqa between them, Laila was not buffered from his penetrating eyes.
“I'm so upset, I seem to have forgotten it.” He sighed through his nose. He asked for the uncle's name, his wife's name.
Where did he work? How old was he? His questions left Laila flustered.
He put down his pencil and laced his fingers together.
“You do realize, hamshira, that it is a crime for a woman to run away. We see a lot of it.”
“Women traveling alone, claiming their husbands have died. Sometimes they're telling the truth, most times not.”
“You can be imprisoned for running away, I assume you understand that, nay?” “Let us go, Officer Rahman. Honor the meaning of your name.”
“Show compassion. What does it matter to you to let a mere two women go? What's the harm in releasing us? We are not criminals.”
“It's a matter of qanoon, hamshira, a matter of law,” Rahman said, injecting his voice with a grave, self-important tone.
“It is my responsibility, you see, to maintain order.” In spite of her distraught state, Laila almost laughed.
She was stunned that he'd used that word in the face of all that the Mujahideen factions had done—the murders, the lootings, the rapes.
“If you send us back,” she said instead, slowly, “there is no saying what he will do to us.”
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