The girl was looking back as if waiting for Mariam to pass on some morsel of wisdom, to say something encouraging.
But what wisdom did Mariam have to offer? What encouragement?
Mariam remembered the day they'd buried Nana and how little comfort she had found when Mullah Faizullah had quoted the Koran for her.
Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and He Who has power over all things, Who created death and life that He may try you.
Or when he'd said of her own guilt, “These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. They will destroy you. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault.”
What could she say to this girl that would ease her burden?
As it turned out, Mariam didn't have to say anything.
Because the girl's face twisted, and she was on all fours then saying she was going to be sick.
“Wait! Hold on. I'll get a pan. Not on the floor. I just cleaned... Oh. Oh. Khodaya. God.”
Then one day, about a month after the blast that killed the girl's parents, a man came knocking.
Mariam opened the door. He stated his business. “There is a man here to see you,” Mariam said.
The girl raised her head from the pillow. “He says his name is Abdul Sharif.”
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