That time, Laila went home. She lay on her stomach, feeling like a stupid, pitiable animal,
and hissed as Mariam arranged damp cloths across her bloodied back and thighs.
But, usually, Laila refused to cave in. She made as if she were going home, then took a different route down side streets.
Sometimes she was caught, questioned, scolded two, three, even four times in a single day.
Then the whips came down and the antennas sliced through the air, and she trudged home, bloodied, without so much as a glimpse of Aziza.
Soon Laila took to wearing extra layers, even in the heat, two, three sweaters beneath the burqa, for padding against the beatings.
But for Laila, the reward, if she made it past the Taliban, was worth it.
She could spend as much time as she liked then—hours, even—with Aziza.
They sat in the courtyard, near the swing set, among other children and visiting mothers, and talked about what Aziza had learned that week.
Aziza said Kaka Zaman made it a point to teach them something every day,
reading and writing most days, sometimes geography, a bit of history or science, something about plants, animals.
“But we have to pull the curtains,” Aziza said, “so the Taliban don't see us.”
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