the Phlog

And Rashid was always getting lost. He was three years old and the family had been stuffed in the back of the pickup, and there was such a jumble of wives and hands and children that no one noticed the little boy left behind, holding two ice cream cones in the souq. So he had set off, walking, in the general direction of pickup dust, sticking the cones into his dishdasha pockets for some reason, and holding his slippers in his hands. He’d been found by another Bedouin, tears streaming down his dusty face, ice cream streaming down his pockets.

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