"Do you know how many people I've killed?"
"Yes. Many people."
Assad nodded. "So many people, too many to remember. But those holding the photos remember. They remember everyone I've killed, everyone Rifaat killed, everyone who died on No. 317. They're holding those people's photos, standing at the door, waiting for me to come out."
He lowered his head, looking at the empty pant leg.
"I can't get out. My leg is gone, I can't walk."
"I'll carry you."
Assad lifted his head, looking at Maher.
"You'll carry me? Your leg is crippled too, how will you carry me?"
"I'll crawl if I have to, but I'll get you out."
Assad laughed, "I'm not leaving. Been walking for thirty-one years, can't do it anymore. I'll stay here. Stay here and wait. Wait for the Turks to come, wait for them to break in, wait for them to kill me. If I'm dead, I won't have to walk."
"Uncle—"
Assad raised his hand, interrupting him. "Call me President."
"Mr. President."
