In grocery stores, he carefully pocketed canned ravioli, which they split five ways, Zalmai getting the lion's share.
They ate raw turnips sprinkled with salt. Limp leaves of lettuce and blackened bananas for dinner.
Death from starvation suddenly became a distinct possibility. Some chose not to wait for it.
Mariam heard of a neighborhood widow who had ground some dried bread, laced it with rat poison, and fed it to all seven of her children.
She had saved the biggest portion for herself. Aziza's ribs began to push through the skin, and the fat from her cheeks vanished.
Her calves thinned, and her complexion turned the color of weak tea.
When Mariam picked her up, she could feel her hip bone poking through the taut skin.
Zalmai lay around the house, eyes dulled and half closed, or in his father's lap limp as a rag.
He cried himself to sleep, when he could muster the energy, but his sleep was fitful and sporadic.
White dots leaped before Mariam's eyes whenever she got up. Her head spun, and her ears rang all the time.
She remembered something Mullah Faizullah used to say about hunger when Ramadan started: Even the snakebitten man finds sleep, but not the hungry.
“My children are going to die,” Laila said. “Right before my eyes.”
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