Bone Ash Sky by Katerina Cosgrove

downstairs together in the courtyard, hanging out sheets to dry in the sun, gossiping and worrying over their health, their hair, their sanity.
    Sanaya looked after Hadiya when she came home from school. She’d grown to love the little girl, as though her existence somehow held the key to Sanaya’s own continued survival. If Hadiya was all right, then everything would be. The city breathed along with her. So she fussed, scolded Hadiya when she sulked, made her walk to school with her back straight and toes pointed outward, heeding nothing, ignoring fear.
    She kissed the nape of Hadiya’s neck when she was done and the smell of milk and warmth brought on a renewed rush of tenderness.
    â€˜Now run and put your shoes on. Here’s the photo. Hurry, we don’t want to get into trouble from the teacher.’
    Hadiya collided with a young man at the open door.
    â€˜Uncle Issa!’
    Sanaya took in the spectacle of the man, not yet a man, almost still a boy: incongruous in his torn battle fatigues, tarnished cartridges slung about his hips, the lankness of his shoulder-length hair. He carried a Kalashnikov and couldn’t have been more than twenty. As he sidled into the room, he scooped Hadiya in his arms and kissed the top of her head.
    â€˜I heard your voice all the way outside, Hadi. You’re way too loud for a little girl. Where’s your ma?’
    Hadiya didn’t answer but instead looked up at him with something like fear. Sanaya felt something in her retract. Although he spoke coherently enough to his niece, even tenderly, his whole stance revealed a terrible weariness and indifference, resignation bordering on insanity. He eased Hadiya to the floor and dropped to his knees before her.
    â€˜She shouldn’t be out of the house. Setting a bad example again. And where’s your scarf gone?’
    At this, he put his head in his hands and rocked on his heels.
    â€˜I should never have gone and left you, now your father’s—’
    Knowledge passed through Sanaya like sickness. She had the presence of mind to put out a hand before he could finish the sentence.
    â€˜Go now, Hadiya. Samara’s mummy is waiting downstairs; I heard her honk the horn. I’ll look after your uncle.’ She hugged Hadiya goodbye and led the uncle to the divan.
    Hadiya hesitated for a second, spun on her heels and was gone. Sanaya hurried into the kitchen, trying not to let the young man see her consternation at his appearance. She looked out the window, to make sure Hadiya got safely into the waiting car.
    â€˜I’ll get you a drink. Something strong?’
    â€˜Water,’ he whispered.
    From her vantage point at the kitchen counter she studied him without allowing him to see her. His eyes were hooded, surprising her, when he glanced up briefly, with their blueness. His hair so matted she could hardly make out its colour, but lightish and web-like where it waved at his neck. Small hands, girlish fingers, a hint of golden down on his exposed forearm. He was still a child. When she gave him the glass of water he drank so quickly some spilled on his front. She wanted to dab at the stain with a napkin, but there seemed no point amid the general disorder.
    She didn’t ask him how Hadiya’s father died. Her instinct was to get him to take a shower, but she knew how this could be misconstrued. Instead she sat beside him on the divan until he fell asleep. She removed his boots and covered him with a cotton sheet. His body a dead weight at her touch.
    As usual bombs fell and she could hear them far away across town. One explosion was fairly close that day and rattled the empty vase on the mantel. She put it in a cupboard. She’d latticed all her windows, the shower screen, mirrors and glass doors with masking tape. Only the picture frames, etchings of a faded pre-war Lebanon and solemn, pinched portraits of her forbears, were free of the patterns of potential annihilation.
    She