“How far did you get?” Laila asked. “Not far,” he said and laughed, sounding apologetic, ashamed. “Never even got on the bus.”
“But I thought I was immune, you know, safe. As though there was some accountant up there somewhere,
a guy with a pencil tucked behind his ear who kept track of these things, who tallied things up,
and he'd look down and say, 'Yes, yes, he can have this, we'll let it go. He's paid some dues already, this one.'”
It was in the seams, the hashish, and it spilled all over the street when the police took a knife to the coat.
Tariq laughed again when he said this, a climbing, shaky kind of laugh,
and Laila remembered how he used to laugh like this when they were little, to cloak embarrassment,
to make light of things he'd done that were foolhardy or scandalous.
“He has a limp,” Zalmai said. “Is this who I think it is?”
“He was only visiting,” Mariam said. “Shut up, you,” Rasheed snapped, raising a finger.
He turned back to Laila. “Well, what do you know? Laili and Majnoon reunited. Just like old times.”
His face turned stony. “So you let him in. Here. In my house. You let him in. He was in here with my son.”
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