God, Laila. I saw so many kids buried. There's nothing worse a person can see.”
He crossed his legs. It grew quiet again between them for a while.
“My father didn't survive that first winter,” he said. “He died in his sleep. I don't think there was any pain.”
That same winter, he said, his mother caught pneumonia and almost died, would have died,
if not for a camp doctor who worked out of a station wagon made into a mobile clinic.
She would wake up all night long, feverish, coughing out thick, rust-colored phlegm.
The queues were long to see the doctor, Tariq said.
Everyone was shivering in line, moaning, coughing, some with shit running down their legs, others too tired or hungry or sick to make words.
“But he was a decent man, the doctor. He treated my mother, gave her some pills, saved her life that winter.”
That same winter, Tariq had cornered a kid. “Twelve, maybe thirteen years old,” he said evenly.
“I held a shard of glass to his throat and took his blanket from him. I gave it to my mother.”
He made a vow to himself, Tariq said, after his mother's illness, that they would not spend another winter in camp.
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