Her heart squeezed, and she was faint with sorrow at the thought that this afternoon Aziza would not nap beside her,
that she would not feel the flimsy weight of Aziza's arm on her chest, the curve of Aziza's head pressing into her ribs,
Aziza's breath warming her neck, Aziza's heels poking her belly.
When Aziza was led away, Zalmai began wailing, crying, “Ziza! Ziza!”
He squirmed and kicked in his father's arms, called for his sister,
until his attention was diverted by an organ grinder's monkey across the street.
They walked the last two blocks alone, Mariam, Laila, and Aziza.
As they approached the building, Laila could see its splintered facade, the sagging roof,
the planks of wood nailed across frames with missing windows, the top of a swing set over a decaying wall.
They stopped by the door, and Laila repeated to Aziza what she had told her earlier.
“And if they ask about your father, what do you say?” “The Mujahideen killed him,” Aziza said, her mouth set with wariness.
“That's good. Aziza, do you understand?” “Because this is a special school,” Aziza said.
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