aila could hardly move, as though cement had solidified in every one of her joints.
There was a conversation going on, and Laila knew that she was at one end of it, but
she felt removed from it, as though she were merely eavesdropping. As Tariq talked, Laila
pictured her life as a rotted rope, snapping, unraveling, the fibers detaching, falling away.
It was a hot, muggy afternoon that August of 1992, and they were in the living room of
Laila's house. Mammy had had a stomachache all day, and, minutes before, despite the
rockets that Hekmatyar was launching from the south, Babi had taken her to see a doctor.
And here was Tariq now, seated beside Laila on the couch, looking at the ground, hands
between his knees.
Saying that he was leaving.
Not the neighborhood. Not Kabul. But Afghanistan altogether.
Leaving.
Laila was struck blind.
"Where? Where will you go?"
"Pakistan first. Peshawar. Then I don't know. Maybe Hindustan. Iran."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, how long have you known?"
"A few days. I was going to tell you, Laila, I swear, but I couldn't bring myself to. I knew
how upset you'd be."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Laila, look at me."
"Tomorrow."
"It's my father. His heart can't take it anymore, all this fighting and killing."
Laila buried her face in her hands, a bubble of dread filling her chest.
She should have seen this coming, she thought. Almost everyone she knew had packed
their things and left. The neighborhood had been all but drained of familiar faces, and now,
only four months after fighting had broken out between the Mujahideen factions, Laila
hardly recognized anybody on the streets anymore. Hasina's family had fled in May, off to
Tehran. Wajma and her clan had gone to Islamabad that same month. Giti's parents and her
siblings left in June, shortly after Giti was killed. Laila didn't know where they had gone
she heard a rumor that they had headed for Mashad, in Iran. After people left, their homes
sat unoccupied for a few days, then either militiamen took them or strangers moved in.
Everyone was leaving. And now Tariq too.
"And my mother is not a young woman anymore," he was saying. "They're so afraid all
the time. Laila, look at me."
"You should have told me."
"Please look at me."
A groan came out of Laila. Then a wail. And then she was crying, and when he went to
wipe her cheek with the pad of his thumb she swiped his hand away. It was selfish and
irrational, but she was furious with him for abandoning her, Tariq, who was like an