On the seventh day after Assad returned to Damascus, the photos at the Presidential Palace gate were still being held up.
The old men and women took turns holding them, day and night shifts, like security guards at a factory.
The wind blew the photos, making them rattle, the faces of the dead became big and small in the wind, like they were alive.
Every afternoon, Assad would come out in his wheelchair and sit on the steps for a while. He didn't speak, just sat there.
Maher stood behind him, dragging his left leg, his gun replaced by a cane he was using himself—his right knee ligament was completely ruined in the melee at Homs, the doctor said if he ran again, it would have to be amputated.
The two of them, one in front of the other, like two trees struck by lightning.
On the eighth day, the Turkish delegation came.
