To all the voices who cry, “Woman, Life, Freedom.” *** The small metal ball clanks audibly inside the paint spray as I shake it vigorously. Just one more puff and the deed is all done—finito! My head swivels wearily on its own accord, my ears sharpened like an alert watchdog and slightly pink in the freezing afternoon air; the rumpled curly hair falls short of protecting my ears, and I absolutely refuse to wear a headscarf—or anything over my head for that matter— after what has recently turned up. Parand is on the lookout, his midnight-blue tie-dye hoodie hanging loose on his lanky physique, his long ponytail snaking out of the hood that is drawn down to his nose, also pink with cold. But one cannot really rely on that scatterbrained dork who’s always huddled over his game set day in, day out. If it weren’t for me keeping an eye out, he’d be already bruised and bashed behind bars. The final puff finally deigns to woosh out, and I trace the last letter ‘ی’ , nodding at the blood-r