Dany isn’t stupid.
Day after day, she’s sat in a small concrete cell facing a mirror. So she’s known, all along, about her eyes. After all, this last week, locked up in a box, she’s had nowhere else to look.
Squinting at her own reflection, for long and empty hours, she’s wondered what those kids feel, the ones they send out into the streets as living bombs. It’s always a girl she pictures, a girl sent into a roadside market, an explosive vest wrapped around her little chest.
She imagines how it must feel to walk, heart fluttering in your ribs like a butterfly trapped in a drinking glass. What it’s like to have no control over it, not when the button is pushed, not when the world flies to pieces, taking you and those you love with it.
Over the last week, her pupils have become huge
