By Dan Dworkin
The man in the doorway was backlit by the low hanging sun, and when
he told her about Ray it didn’t seem real.
“Yes ma’am, I’m afraid so.”
Fatima gripped the front of her blouse and twisted. She steadied
herself against the door jam, and when she spoke it was a whisper,
The detective frowned, as he was not learned in Uzbek, “I’m sorry?”
“I say, is impossible.”
Everything about her was fragile and too thin — her wrists, her
neck, even the skin on her face, which was translucent in the morning
“I wish you were right about that, ma’am.”
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