He knelt among the shattered glass.
Dilan knew the precise moment his heart stopped feeling like a muscle and started feeling like a wound. It was the spring of 2011, in the back of his uncle’s grocery truck, as they snuck across the green border from Iraqi Kurdistan into Iran. He was fourteen, clutching a bag of pistachios and a stolen copy of Hafez’s poetry. The bullet wound on his thigh, from a Turkish army mortar two weeks prior, had healed into a shiny, purple scar. But the other wound—the one where his father’s laugh used to live—had not. love and other drugs kurdish
“I need more,” she said, not as a request, but as a diagnosis. He knelt among the shattered glass