in the white knuckle, anxious way of children clutching balloon strings.
Laila likes Murree's cool, foggy mornings and its dazzling twilights, the dark brilliance of the sky at night;
the green of the pines and the soft brown of the squirrels darting up and down the sturdy tree trunks;
the sudden downpours that send shoppers in the Mall scrambling for awning cover.
She likes the souvenir shops, and the various hotels that house tourists, even as the locals bemoan the constant construction,
the expansion of infrastructure that they say is eating away at Murree's natural beauty.
Laila finds it odd that people should lament the building of buildings. In Kabul, they would celebrate it.
She likes that they have a bathroom, not an outhouse but an actual bathroom, with a toilet that flushes,
a shower, and a sink too, with twin faucets from which she can draw, with a flick of her wrist, water, either hot or cold.
She likes waking up to the sound of Alyona bleating in the morning, and the harmlessly cantankerous cook, Adiba, who works marvels in the kitchen.
Sometimes, as Laila watches Tariq sleep, as her children mutter and stir in their own sleep,
a great big lump of gratitude catches in her throat, makes her eyes water.
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