The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden

the sky and Mutanabbi Street trembled with distant explosions.
    Whenever Talib ventured to the magazine stall, he saw only the older man whom he now guessed to be al-Nakash’s brother. Talib hoped that if and when Jabir returned, he’d have forgotten they ever talked.
    Talib noticed that every day a blue taxi parked in a small side alley. The driver spent his time drinking tea in the
chai khana
, and the door to the gas cap was missing.
    He noted this out of mere curiosity, he told himself. He didn’t really care that the taxi driver was practically
offering
him free gasoline. He was just observing.
    Yet when he came upon a short length of rubber hose, he picked it up and tucked it carefully under his coat.

FIERCER
    That night’s battle was fiercer than usual, with no relief in gunfire. Even sheltered in the back bedroom, Nouri heard bullets pinging against the front of the house.
    Shatha climbed from her spot on the floor into Mama and Baba’s big bed. Nouri wished he could climb in too. But he didn’t feel like sleeping so near Baba.
    Whenever the bombs burst, Nouri sensed the three in the bed above flinch. Even Baba flinched.
    Sometime after midnight, a plane zoomed overhead, droning like a gigantic insect. Then came a huge blast.
    Nouri froze, waiting, his fingernails plunged into his palms.
    After a few minutes of silence, he whispered, “We’re still here.”
    â€œPraise be to Allah,” Mama whispered back.
    â€œPraise be,” echoed Shatha in her small voice.
    Only Baba remained silent.

NEVER
    Talib had settled himself on the wooden box, ready for a day of bookselling, when Baba said, “You’ll need to work alone this morning.”
    â€œWhy, Baba?” Perhaps Baba was off for a long chat with one of his old friends.
    â€œI’ve heard news about Karada. I’m going back there.”
    â€œWhat news?” Talib sheltered his eyes from the cold sunshine, looking up into Baba’s face. Was the news good? Was it now safe to go home?
    Baba’s gaze drifted to a spot somewhere beyond the ruins of the Shabandar Café. He drew his eyebrows together. “A bombing.”
    As the words exploded in the cold air, Talib jumped to his feet. “I have to go with you.”
    Baba shook his head. “Another time.”
    â€œNo, now!”
    Baba rearranged his red scarf. “There’s been heavy fighting in Karada. Last night the battle got so out of control that the Americans brought in a plane and bombed.”
    â€œA bombing could end all that fighting.”
    Baba grunted, looking down at Talib. Then he bent down and placed a stack of books in a box. “If you’re coming, we’ll have to pack up.”
    . . .
    The bus driver was still suspicious; the red vinyl seats were still dusty. The Tigris River looked drier than ever.
    Talib leaned his forehead against the cold window glass. What would he and Baba find in Karada?
    At last, Baba signaled the driver to let them out and they descended the steps. Once the two halves of the door had closed behind them, Talib looked around. Debris littered the streets. Red and black graffiti, pocked with bullet holes, screamed from the walls of buildings and homes.
    Three American tanks rolled slowly down the street, rubble popping under the great treaded tires. An ambulance roared past, driving halfway up on the sidewalk.
    As they walked, Baba kept looking over his shoulder. There were a few others out, but Talib recognized no one.
    Instead of going straight, Baba turned right, as if to avoid Nouri’s house.
    Two more turns and they’d come to the two-story tan building with the blue trim and the narrow gate. How would he feel to see other people’s laundry on their line? To maybe get a glimpse of a stranger through their windows?
    Suddenly Baba stopped.
    â€œWhat . . . ?” Talib started to say. Then he choked his words back.
    This was his street. But there was nothing.