I wanted to make a gothic of it all: the trees on the slope where the island dipped into the sea, their weird kinks & angles;
Kimo is early, anxious. He propped open the doors of his bodega hours ago, left his oldest son, Mohammed, behind the counter. Now he’s outside the Department of Consumer Affairs, which doesn’t open for another forty-five minutes. Nine-to...
She has drawn them disembarking a sky-blue bus, fresh from the bombing of Al Hajar. Some stumble in the red-blobbed orchard, their hair shedding dust.
