January 16, 7:00 PM, Kabul
Cursing, I slam down the receiver and run out of the house, shout for Bro. He stands by his car still parked on the street. Arms folded, he turns to me, a stocky young man with black hair and a heavy mustache. He wears a leather jacket and jeans. He used to lift weights and box. Despite a potbelly he could kick my ass.
The night sky unfurls above us without stars and curtains everything in darkness except for a small patch of light coming from inside Bro's car. Streetlights hover above us with no purpose. After nearly thirty years of war, nothing functions here.