Lamar in the Zataari Refugee Camp
Wyatt Inlow
In broad daylight, Lamar sees the haunt that had stalked her and her sisters in their old house. She had never caught more than a
glimpse, a shadow in her peripheral or a teasing footfall in the dead of night, but she never had a doubt what it must look like, and
here he stands: in the middle of the street, peering through the shop window at the displays of yellow and orange and blue dresses
that are up for rent to couples who get married while living in the refugee camp. Tall for a hunchback; a handsome face with black
hair; quick eyes; a severe jawline; a disgustingly thin gut. The initials FLD are sewn above the pocket of his brown leather jacket, which
he wears open and with only one arm; the other is tucked under his chest, rocking a little girl who clings to his shoulder sleepily. He
shifts his weight and the empty jacket sleeve does a forlorn dance.
