‘I thought you’d say something like that. Salama, you and I live our lives second by second. We might live to ride that boat to Syracuse. We might settle in Munich. We might learn German, paint our apartment in vibrant shades of colour we haven’t seen in Homs in a long time, and build a life. An amazing life. You’d become a pharmacist all the hospitals would trip over themselves to hire, and I’d draw our stories. We’d have our own adventures.’ He looks away bashfully, stumbling on his words. ‘We’d write a book. Together. But … we also might not survive these six days. We might be buried here.
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