and pulls it back to earth.
“Sometimes they try to fly, sometimes they don’t,” he says. “I don’t know what makes the difference.”
He reels the struggling bird all the way in. When it’s close enough, he reaches out and grabs it. For some reason it stops fighting him, perhaps in shock. The man holds the pigeon’s body with one hand and, with the other, twists its neck until it breaks. Then he cuts the bird’s body loose and places it in a bag beside him. The man stands.
“Are you finished for the day?” Kenan asks.
The old man nods. “I’ve caught six, one for each person in my apartment. I only take what I need. If I’m not greedy, perhaps they will still be here tomorrow.”
“Good luck,” Kenan says.
“To you too, sir.” The man picks up his bag and pole and starts up the plaza, heading north towards Vratnik.
Kenan stays there long after the man is gone. Although he has never killed an animal himself, apart from a fish, the idea of it has never particularly bothered him. But he can’t help feeling a sort of kinshipwith the pigeon. He thinks it’s possible that the men on the hills are killing them slowly, a half-dozen at a time, so there will always be a few more to kill the next day.
Arrow
T HE OFFICE OF A RROW’S UNIT COMMANDER ISN’T much to look at. A small room with a desk and three chairs, boarded-up windows, a stained carpet covering a badly worn wood floor. All of it is illuminated by one naked light bulb powered by a generator that she can hear chugging away in another room. The bulb hangs from a wire into the middle of the room above the desk, and if she looks directly at it, she will be blinded for the following ten minutes by a glowing orb centred in her vision. She can never decide if the light has been placed in such an obtrusive location on purpose, as somes sort of intimidation technique, or if it’s only poor design. In her experience the army excels in both intimidation and tastelessness.
“You have been watched for some time now,” her commander says, standing behind her and placing his hand on Arrow’s shoulder in a way that seems as though it’s meant to be reassuring. Arrow wonders whether he’s referring to that morning’s incident, to the enemy sniper who had been hunting her. In the time she spends considering this possibility, the hand on her shoulder goes from feeling benign to malevolent. She fights an urge to tear it off her, rise from the hard chair she sits in and drive the palm of her hand upward into the throat of her unit commander.
“Many people are impressed with your abilities,” he continues. It seems that he isn’t talking about this morning’s sniper, so she calms down. He removes his hand and sits behind his desk, facing her.
Nermin Filipović is a good-looking man, dressed in rumpled but clean camouflage fatigues. His beard is neatly trimmed and his hair is dark, if a little long. Arrow imagines it is soft to the touch. He’s in his late thirties and, as far as she knows, isn’t married. There’s a small scar on his forehead above his right eye, and the nail on his right index finger has turned a dark purple, as though it has recently sustained a blow.
He’s a professional soldier. When the war began, and Europe’s fourth-largest army turned inward on itself and surrounded the city, he was one of the few career officers to break ranks and defend the city against hisformer colleagues. If they fail and Sarajevo falls, if the men on the hills ever make it into the city, he will be one of the first people they execute. Arrow isn’t sure what her position will be on their list. There’s no way to tell how much they know about her.
“We have a special assignment for you. An important assignment.”
Arrow nods. She has suspected that he was working towards something like this. So far they’ve been content to let her choose her own targets, have left her more or less alone, provided she continues to deliver bullets to worthy
“Sometimes they try to fly, sometimes they don’t,” he says. “I don’t know what makes the difference.”
He reels the struggling bird all the way in. When it’s close enough, he reaches out and grabs it. For some reason it stops fighting him, perhaps in shock. The man holds the pigeon’s body with one hand and, with the other, twists its neck until it breaks. Then he cuts the bird’s body loose and places it in a bag beside him. The man stands.
“Are you finished for the day?” Kenan asks.
The old man nods. “I’ve caught six, one for each person in my apartment. I only take what I need. If I’m not greedy, perhaps they will still be here tomorrow.”
“Good luck,” Kenan says.
“To you too, sir.” The man picks up his bag and pole and starts up the plaza, heading north towards Vratnik.
Kenan stays there long after the man is gone. Although he has never killed an animal himself, apart from a fish, the idea of it has never particularly bothered him. But he can’t help feeling a sort of kinshipwith the pigeon. He thinks it’s possible that the men on the hills are killing them slowly, a half-dozen at a time, so there will always be a few more to kill the next day.
Arrow
T HE OFFICE OF A RROW’S UNIT COMMANDER ISN’T much to look at. A small room with a desk and three chairs, boarded-up windows, a stained carpet covering a badly worn wood floor. All of it is illuminated by one naked light bulb powered by a generator that she can hear chugging away in another room. The bulb hangs from a wire into the middle of the room above the desk, and if she looks directly at it, she will be blinded for the following ten minutes by a glowing orb centred in her vision. She can never decide if the light has been placed in such an obtrusive location on purpose, as somes sort of intimidation technique, or if it’s only poor design. In her experience the army excels in both intimidation and tastelessness.
“You have been watched for some time now,” her commander says, standing behind her and placing his hand on Arrow’s shoulder in a way that seems as though it’s meant to be reassuring. Arrow wonders whether he’s referring to that morning’s incident, to the enemy sniper who had been hunting her. In the time she spends considering this possibility, the hand on her shoulder goes from feeling benign to malevolent. She fights an urge to tear it off her, rise from the hard chair she sits in and drive the palm of her hand upward into the throat of her unit commander.
“Many people are impressed with your abilities,” he continues. It seems that he isn’t talking about this morning’s sniper, so she calms down. He removes his hand and sits behind his desk, facing her.
Nermin Filipović is a good-looking man, dressed in rumpled but clean camouflage fatigues. His beard is neatly trimmed and his hair is dark, if a little long. Arrow imagines it is soft to the touch. He’s in his late thirties and, as far as she knows, isn’t married. There’s a small scar on his forehead above his right eye, and the nail on his right index finger has turned a dark purple, as though it has recently sustained a blow.
He’s a professional soldier. When the war began, and Europe’s fourth-largest army turned inward on itself and surrounded the city, he was one of the few career officers to break ranks and defend the city against hisformer colleagues. If they fail and Sarajevo falls, if the men on the hills ever make it into the city, he will be one of the first people they execute. Arrow isn’t sure what her position will be on their list. There’s no way to tell how much they know about her.
“We have a special assignment for you. An important assignment.”
Arrow nods. She has suspected that he was working towards something like this. So far they’ve been content to let her choose her own targets, have left her more or less alone, provided she continues to deliver bullets to worthy
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