Hail pellets broke through the awning. They pierced holes in the corrugated green plastic. Sunlight streamed through the holes the following morning, casting facsimile shapes of light in the shade. To the young Mohammed Kazem, the holes looked like eyes. They were on the blinds, in the shadows on the walls and on the ground, enveloping him from above, from below. The eyes changed as the day progressed. They grimaced. They frowned. They squinted as if mid-laugh.