A Thousand Splendid Suns

That was when a voice behind Laila said, "Hey. Yellow Hair. Look here."
Laila turned around and was greeted by the barrel of a gun.
17.
The gun was red, the trigger guard bright green. Behind the gun
loomed Khadim's grinning face. Khadim was eleven, like Tariq. He was
thick, tall, and had a severe underbite. His father was a butcher in
Deh-Mazang, and, from time to time, Khadim was known to fling bits of
calf intestine at passersby. Sometimes, if Tariq wasn't nearby, Khadim
shadowed Laila in the schoolyard at recess, leering, making little whining
noises. One time, he'd tapped her on the shoulder and said, You 're so
very pretty, Yellow Hair. I want to marry you.
Now he waved the gun. "Don't worry," he said. "This won't show. Not on
your hair."
"Don't you do it! I'm warning you."
"What are you going to do?" he said. "Sic your cripple on me? 'Oh,
Tariq jan. Oh, won't you come home and save me from the badmashl'"
Laila began to backpedal, but Khadim was already pumping the trigger.
One after another, thin jets of warm water struck Laila's hair, then her
palm when she raised it to shield her face.
Now the other boys came out of their hiding, laughing, cackling.
An insult Laila had heard on the street rose to her lips. She didn't really