The first bomb site was relatively new. Plaster dust still swirled in the air, and a family of ragpickers dug through the wreckage. Their prettiest daughter—a black-eyed waif of nine or ten in a velveteen frock twice her size—was stationed on a blanket at the side of the road to sell their meager finds to passersby: battered shoes, old nails and screws, a pair of scuffed eyeglasses.
The strength of this novel is its world-building. Here’s a good example.
