The city stinks of trash and death. Feces down alleyways. Piss stained dumpsters. Salman’s body deteriorates in the summer heat. 

A corpse leaning against a brick wall. Eyes wide open. Looking up at God. Maybe the soul has not left his body yet; a state between life and death. A spirit yelling to be released. Prayers for forgiveness.

His two children wonder why dad has not been home in a week.  Usually, his benders last a couple of days. Never this long. They have been taught not to question. They do not.

There is no identification on him. No credit cards. No cash. Pockets picked by peasants. Filthy hands. Dogs walk by and smell the body of the Arab. Rotten fruit.

Jesus, the garbage man says. What the hell? Flys swarm around the family man’s head and body. You’re not going to believe this, the laborer says to the driver. Gotta dead one.

I’ve seen this before, the driver says. Dead bodies in alleys. Junkies and crackheads. Had a little too much of a good time.

Yeah. You gonna call it in?

Yeah. We’ll wait for the cops.

She knows. The wife always knows. Her husband is dead. And she knows how he died. No one has called to tell her. No official has knocked on the door. Just silence as she falls to the floor. He is gone, she cries. Gone. May Allah forgive you. She gets on her knees and prays for hours. She knows what she must do.