At the end of the street Nuri leads me
down another alley, this one narrow and dark. Above us metal fire
escapes creak in the early morning air, sad sounds like melodies
half remembered from a dream, and I walk hunched over because I’m
convinced they’re going to fall on me. Misreading my posture as
apprehension, Nuri says again, “They’re at the Bridge. What’s there
to guard here?”
I don’t know.
When we step out of the alley there’s
a thin blonde woman squatting in a doorway nearby, and at her feet
a little girl picks at stunted grass that grows in the cracks of
the sidewalk. I glance at the woman and she snatches the girl up,
folding the child into her arms as if she thinks I’ll steal her
away. Nuri nods at her but the woman’s scowl only deepens, and she
glares at us until we’re out of sight.
“The Dump’s just up ahead,”
Nuri says.
The Dump
I envision a large, rambling junkyard,
cast off furniture and discarded automobiles decaying in a maze of