Laila lay curled up on the floor, gasping. She pushed herself up, crawled to where Aziza lay on the bed.
She reached for her daughter. Downstairs, the beating began.
To Laila, the sounds she heard were those of a methodical proceeding.
There was no cursing, no screaming, only the systematic business of beating and being beaten—the thump of something solid striking flesh.
Now and then, Laila heard running footsteps, a wordless chase, furniture turning over, glass shattering, then the thumping once more.
Laila took Aziza in her arms. A warmth spread down the front of her dress when Aziza's bladder let go. Downstairs, the running finally stopped.
There was a sound now like a wooden club repeatedly slapping a side of beef. Laila rocked Aziza until the sounds stopped.
When she heard the screen door creak open and slam shut, she lowered Aziza to the ground and peeked out the window.
She saw Rasheed leading Mariam across the yard by the nape of her neck.
Mariam was barefoot and doubled over. There was blood on his hands.
“I'm so sorry, Mariam,” Laila cried into the glass. She watched him shove Mariam into the toolshed. He went in, came out with a hammer.
He shut the double doors to the shed, took a key from his pocket, worked the padlock. He fetched a ladder.
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