The space at the rear of the clinic was a narrow, neglected alley of hard-packed ground, shielded from the wide avenues by a sagging canvas screen and a pyramid of broken supply crates. It was where Dawud went to catch his breath, to escape the weight of the glances. Today, it served as a courtroom.
He was leaning against the warm plywood, his eyes closed, trying to mute the rumbling map of human possibility that now resided behind his eyes. The stench of rot and dust was an earthy mooring. He was oblivious to her approach until her shadow fell over him.
He opened his eyes. Sarah was in front of him, arms folded, her crisp WHO vest having been exchanged for a simple, dusty tunic. Her face was not furious. It was focused, painfully intense. Her eyes, the rich brown of fine coffee, reveale
