not when some unsuspecting girl or boy back home has just been orphaned by a rocket as she was.
Laila cannot bring herself to say it. It's hard to rejoice. It seems hypocritical, perverse.
That night, Zalmai wakes up coughing. Before Laila can move, Tariq swings his legs over the side of the bed.
He straps on his prosthesis and walks over to Zalmai, lifts him up into his arms.
From the bed, Laila watches Tariq's shape moving back and forth in the darkness.
She sees the outline of Zalmai's head on his shoulder, the knot of his hands at Tariq's neck, his small feet bouncing by Tariq's hip.
When Tariq comes back to bed, neither of them says anything. Laila reaches over and touches his face. Tariq's cheeks are wet.
50.
For Laila, life in Murree is one of comfort and tranquility.
The work is not cumbersome, and, on their days off, she and Tariq take the children to ride the chairlift to Patriata hill,
or go to Pindi Point, where, on a clear day, you can see as far as Islamabad and downtown Rawalpindi.
There, they spread a blanket on the grass and eat meatball sandwiches with cucumbers and drink cold ginger ale.
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