Laila closed her eyes. She woke again to Rasheed's heavy footsteps in the hallway.
She dragged herself to the door, slapped her palms against it.
“Just one glass, Rasheed. Not for me. Do it for her. You don't want her blood on your hands.”
He walked past. She began to plead with him. She begged for forgiveness, made promises. She cursed him.
His door closed. The radio came on. The muezzin called azan a third time. Again the heat.
Aziza became even more listless. She stopped crying, stopped moving altogether.
Laila put her ear over Aziza's mouth, dreading each time that she would not hear the shallow whooshing of breath.
Even this simple act of lifting herself made her head swim. She fell asleep, had dreams she could not remember.
When she woke up, she checked on Aziza, felt the parched cracks of her lips, the faint pulse at her neck, lay down again.
They would die here, of that Laila was sure now, but what she really dreaded was that she would outlast Aziza, who was young and brittle.
How much more could Aziza take? Aziza would die in this heat,
and Laila would have to lie beside her stiffening little body and wait for her own death.
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