And so Mariam raised the shovel high, raised it as high as she could, arching it so it touched the small of her back.
She turned it so the sharp edge was vertical, and, as she did,
it occurred to her that this was the first time that she was deciding the course of her own life.
And, with that, Mariam brought down the shovel. This time, she gave it everything she had.
46. Laila
Laila was aware of the face over her, all teeth and tobacco and foreboding eyes.
She was dimly aware, too, of Mariam, a presence beyond the face, of her fists raining down.
Above them was the ceiling, and it was the ceiling Laila was drawn to, the dark markings of mold spreading across it like ink on a dress,
the crack in the plaster that was a stolid smile or a frown, depending on which end of the room you looked at it from.
Laila thought of all the times she had tied a rag around the end of a broom and cleaned cobwebs from this ceiling.
The three times she and Mariam had put coats of white paint on it. The crack wasn't a smile any longer now but a mocking leer.
And it was receding. The ceiling was shrinking, lifting, rising away from her and toward some hazy dimness beyond.
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