Dov itched to rip her away from the protestors. There Liat stood, demonstrating on Even-Sinna Street with the rest of the lunatics. No sooner had the small vigil for the Sudanese boy, Ahmad Sakis been observed in Jaffa, than a small group of Israeli activists organized to protest his murder. Liat should know better than this; it wouldn’t take much to spark a riot in these streets, not with how tense things had become since Israel began deporting the South Sudanese refugees in June. Furthermore, she’d been with Dov when he was shot. He’d already sacrificed one eye over the cause and wasn’t about to part with the other, but Liat’s presence drew him closer to the crowd.
He called out to her, though the name made his tongue lead. The thrill of seeing her again pinched his guts together. Liat turned and gaped at him for a moment, overcome with awe, before a kind of fury brought the color back into her cheeks. Dark, kohl-rimmed eyes nailed him to the ground. She rushed forward, her mouth firing off in his mother’s old Moroccan tongue, a language he failed to grasp in its entirety. She smacked him hard across the face, her nails piercing his skin. Dov pushed his sunglasses back against his head and stared at her with his lone eye, his mouth wide and trembling.
The sight of his empty socket, the indented flesh a permanent bruise of scar tissue, punctured her anger. She gazed at his mangled features, her own...
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