The Talib lifted his Kalashnikov and fired rounds into the air. Another Talib behind him brandished a whip.
The crowd dispersed quickly. The waiting room at Rabia Balkhi was teeming with women in burqas and their children.
The air stank of sweat and unwashed bodies, of feet, urine, cigarette smoke, and antiseptic.
Beneath the idle ceiling fan, children chased each other, hopping over the stretched-out legs of dozing fathers.
Mariam helped Laila sit against a wall from which patches of plaster shaped like foreign countries had slid off.
Laila rocked back and forth, hands pressing against her belly. “I'll get you seen, Laila jo. I promise.” “Be quick,” said Rasheed.
Before the registration window was a horde of women, shoving and pushing against each other.
Some were still holding their babies. Some broke from the mass and charged the double doors that led to the treatment rooms.
An armed Talib guard blocked their way, sent them back. Mariam waded in.
She dug in her heels and burrowed against the elbows, hips, and shoulder blades of strangers.
Someone elbowed her in the ribs, and she elbowed back. A hand made a desperate grab at her face.
She swatted it away. To propel herself forward, Mariam clawed at necks, at arms and elbows, at hair,
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