It is dusty amid the rubble of the knife maker’s shop: the chisels on their racks, the unfinished product from the day before, the bucket of water, the anvil, the dulled fire. I stretch, rubbing my stomach, scratching my head. I remember the conversation with Abdul the night before, about the man looking for someone like me. The plan. The door to the shop creaks open. A woman’s head appears, covered in a black scarf. She lingers in the doorway a moment, her eyes adjusting. Then she focuses on me. “Abdul is dead.” “What?” I take a step toward her. “What happened?” “He died in his sleep. He coughed and coughed, and then he was still.” She glances around the shop, as if she has never seen it. She is a short woman, her head barely rising to the level of my chest, her eyes far apart and set deep in her face, like a bird’s. I look down, unsure of what to say. I have grown to like Abdul and his quiet, competent ways. He has treated me fairly, even covered for me. Now he is gone.
