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When a car crashes here in the gulf it’s left out to bake the wreck curls up at the edges, sun-dried steel cluttering the shoulders of every road. Paint broils off in patches, geographies form in the rust. Every desert road a highway of death.
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Don’t look away! I know it’s hard to keep regarding one so charred, so disfigured by unfriendly fire and think it once burned with desire.
—Tony Harrison, A Cold Coming
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The doctors asked me after so many times, “Nada why are you still crying? Do you know this guy?” but I cannot explain to them.
—Nada Zeidan, Operating Theater Nurse
Nada Zeidan drove her Mitsubishi Lancer off a cliff at 140kph. It’s a miracle she’s alive. Nada treats trauma cases, boys with busted skulls and burned bodies. Boys who come in from the road north.
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Their front seats are shoved up, out and over a split dashboard. Upholstery foam flowers out from gashes in burned leather. Nada remembers the snout of her lancer sheared clean off. Just a stump of engine, that last hand-break-turn gone wrong.
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