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‘I want the boy,’ I said again. Sohrab’s eyes flicked to me. They were slaughter sheep’s eyes. They even had the mascara—I remembered how, on the day of Eid of qorban, the mullah in our backyard used to apply mascara to the eyes of the sheep and feed it a cube of sugar before slicing its throat. I thought I saw pleading in Sohrab’s eyes.
Assef had backed down, promised that in the end he’d get us both. He’d kept that promise with Hassan. Now it was my turn.
My body was broken—just how badly I wouldn’t find out until later—but I felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed.
The impact had cut your upper lip in two, he had said, clean down the middle. Clean down the middle. Like a harelip.
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