3
Hanging out with Khalil wasn’t like hanging out with anyone else. We ran through the streets like tyrants, orange peels flipping over our shoulders, cars swerving to get out of our way. The poorest princes of Fallujah.
People watched us, shaking their heads.
Khalil taught me to chase dogs before they had a chance to chase me. We stoned them when they nipped at our ankles—a good rock to the ribs—a chunk of concrete between the eyes. Getting bit was much worse. We chased the screaming freight trains. At night. Beating the afternoon.
Pretending the trains were speeding beasts. Threw stones at them, too.