His casual tone reassured her as much as anything. “I don’t think luck has much to do with your life.”
His shrug said maybe. “I met you.”
“I work here.”
“You are also at the wrong end of your country and speak excellent English.”
Not knowing what else to say, Azadah repeated herself, “I work here.” These were more words than she had spoken in any language in a year and it was exhausting.
“Who do you work for is the next question.”
Security.
It is always security.
Her country no longer spoke of the seasons or the crops. There was less concern for the next dust storm or the birth of a child than of who was aligned with who. There was only, always, security. She was sick of it.
“I speak to no one.”
“You’re speaking to me. I guess that makes me no one,” he managed to sound hurt.
