Maher sat on the chair by the bed, a bowl of soup spread out before him. Chicken soup, sent over by the Turks, with a layer of oil floating on top. He stirred it with a spoon, scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to Assad's lips.
Assad drank it.
"Too hot."
"I'll blow it longer next time."
Maher scooped another spoonful and blew on it for a long time.
Assad drank again.
"Maher, when are you leaving?"
"Where to?"
"Home. Back to Syria. Syria is gone, but home is still there. North of Damascus, that village you lived in when you were a child. The house is still there, I went to see it."
Maher's hand paused. The spoon hung in mid-air, drops of soup fell, landing on the sheet and spreading into a small stain.
"You've been to Damascus?"
