“Look at me,” he said. “Jalil Khan says that I need to take you back now. Right now. Do you understand? Jalil Khan says so.”
He opened the rear passenger door to the car. “Bia. Come on,” he said softly.
“I want to see him,” Mariam said. Her eyes were tearing over.
The driver sighed. “Let me take you home. Come on, dokhtarjo.” Mariam stood up and walked toward him.
But then, at the last moment, she changed direction and ran to the front gates.
She felt the driver's fingers fumbling for a grip at her shoulder. She shed him and burst through the open gates.
In the handful of seconds that she was in Jalil's garden, Mariam's eyes registered seeing a gleaming glass structure with plants inside it,
grape vines clinging to wooden trellises, a fishpond built with gray blocks of stone,
fruit trees, and bushes of brightly colored flowers everywhere.
Her gaze skimmed over all of these things before they found a face, across the garden, in an upstairs window.
The face was there for only an instant, a flash, but long enough.
Long enough for Mariam to see the eyes widen, the mouth open.
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