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"Esma," said Malik, "the sun's set. Aren't you going out tonight?"
"Not tonight," Esma replied. Maybe she should have just one more smoke. Steadying her hands, she lit the new cigarette, flicked the embers of her last into her ashtray, and took a deep drag. This was real tobacco, bought from Franko and cut with herbs from their own garden. Almost enough for her to feel like she and Malik had just dropped by the neighbourhood tobacconist to argue about their favourite blends.
Almost.
"Esma..." Slowly, Malik rose from his radio desk and limped on his crutches to the bed, where he sat down beside her and placed an arm around her shoulder. "...Are you still thinking about last night?"
Esma's eyes watered and stung from the thick black smoke. The air was filled with the reek – the taste – of burning wood – burning flesh – and the metallic tang of blood.
And the blood was everywhere.
"Please help!" A woman clutched at Esma's leg. Blood was streaming freely from a cut in her cheek. "My husband is dying!"
Oh, God – his stomach –
"Help!"
"I... I don't know how..."
Esma nodded silently and lit another cigarette. "It's not just about... what I saw. After your broadcasts today, the whole world will know about that atrocity. If the army was angry at us before... this will be the last straw."
"I know, my love..." Malik held her closer and rested his head on hers. "I know. But if I must lay down my life to help the people of Pogoren in this small way... so be it."
But did it have to be him?
"Esma..." He drew back from her to meet her eyes. "There's still time. You should go."
"What about you?"
Even as the question left her lips, her gaze fell to Malik's splinted leg; they both knew it was futile.
"Go," he said. "Live a long, full life for me. And maybe – " he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "Maybe Adem will find his way back to you."
Maybe, but – Esma shook her head. "You couldn't have done it without me. I can't leave you to pay that price..."
Even if she left, death could come at any time. Like it had for those people waiting for water at the brewery last night. Or the woman who thought the park would be safe from snipers. Or even that soldier at the gas station whom she'd struck with her pickaxe in a panic.
God, it was either her or him – but he was just a young fool, like Adem. She could still see the shock on his face, on all of those faces.
But – there it was.
A van rumbled lazily down their street and slowed to a stop at their door, sounding just like a delivery van from another lifetime ago, in another Pogoren. Nowadays, no one drove.
She threw away her cigarette and kissed Malik, and he drew her into his arms and squeezed her tight.
The door downstairs flew open with a bang, and the thudding of boots echoed up to their bedroom. Esma stood. Malik reached for the young soldier's rifle by the bed, and she took up the pickaxe.
It was better to see it coming, this death they chose together.