When the girl insisted he witness something, Rasheed tipped his chin upward and cast an impatient, sidelong glance down the blue-veined hook of his nose.
“Watch. Watch how she laughs when I snap my fingers. There. See? Did you see?” Rasheed would grunt, and go back to his plate.
Mariam remembered how the girl's mere presence used to overwhelm him.
Everything she said used to please him, intrigue him, make him look up from his plate and nod with approval.
The strange thing was, the girl's fall from grace ought to have pleased Mariam, brought her a sense of vindication.
But it didn't. It didn't. To her own surprise, Mariam found herself pitying the girl.
It was also over dinner that the girl let loose a steady stream of worries.
Topping the list was pneumonia, which was suspected with every minor cough.
Then there was dysentery, the specter of which was raised with every loose stool. Every rash was either chicken pox or measles.
“You should not get so attached,” Rasheed said one night. “What do you mean?”
“I was listening to the radio the other night. Voice of America. I heard an interesting statistic.”
“They said that in Afghanistan one out of four children will die before the age of five. That's what they said.”
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