Laila winced with, she hoped, an indignant air. She could feel her heart drumming in her throat.
“He was like a brother to me.” “So he was a friend or a brother?”
“Both. He—” “Which was it?” “He was like both. But brothers and sisters are creatures of curiosity. Yes.”
“Sometimes a brother lets his sister see his pecker, and a sister will—” “You sicken me,” Laila said.
“So there was nothing.” “I don't want to talk about this anymore.” Rasheed tilted his head, pursed his lips, nodded.
“People gossiped, you know. I remember. They said all sorts of things about you two. But you're saying there was nothing.”
She willed herself to glare at him. He held her eyes for an excruciatingly long time in an unblinking way
that made her knuckles go pale around the milk bottle, and it took all that Laila could muster to not falter.
She shuddered at what he would do if he found out that she had been stealing from him.
Every week, since Aziza's birth, she pried his wallet open when he was asleep or in the outhouse and took a single bill.
Some weeks, if the wallet was light, she took only a five-afghan bill, or nothing at all, for fear that he would notice.
When the wallet was plump, she helped herself to a ten or a twenty, once even risking two twenties.
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