A few minutes later, his face was in Laila's window, nails tucked in the corner of his mouth. There was a swath of blood on his brow.
At the sight of him, Aziza shrieked and buried her face in Laila's armpit. Rasheed began nailing boards across the window.
The dark was total, impenetrable and constant. Rasheed had filled the cracks between the boards and stuffed the keyhole.
Something had been stuffed in the keyhole. Laila found it impossible to tell the passage of time, so she did it with her good ear.
Azan and crowing roosters signaled morning. The sounds of plates clanking in the kitchen, the radio playing, meant evening.
The first day, they groped and fumbled for each other in the dark. Laila couldn't see Aziza when she cried, when she went crawling.
“Aishee,” Aziza mewled. “Aishee.” “Soon.” Laila kissed her daughter, aiming for the forehead, finding the crown of her head instead.
We'll have milk soon. You just be patient. Be a good, patient little girl for Mammy, and I'll get you some aishee.
Laila sang her a few songs. Azan rang out a second time and still Rasheed had not given them any food, and, worse, no water.
That day, a thick, suffocating heat fell on them. The room turned into a pressure cooker.
Laila dragged a dry tongue over her lips, thinking of the well outside, the water cold and fresh.
Aziza kept crying, and Laila noticed with alarm that when she wiped her cheeks her hands came back dry.
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