Then it snapped away from view. A hand appeared and frantically pulled at a cord. The curtains fell shut.
Then a pair of hands buried into her armpits and she was lifted off the ground.
Mariam kicked. The pebbles spilled from her pocket.
Mariam kept kicking and crying as she was carried to the car and lowered onto the cold leather of the backseat.
The driver talked in a muted, consoling tone as he drove. Mariam did not hear him.
All during the ride, as she bounced in the backseat, she cried. They were tears of grief, of anger, of disillusionment.
But mainly tears of a deep, deep shame at how foolishly she had given herself over to Jalil,
how she had fretted over what dress to wear, over the mismatching hijab,
walking all the way here, refusing to leave, sleeping on the street like a stray dog.
And she was ashamed of how she had dismissed her mother's stricken looks, her puffy eyes.
Nana, who had warned her, who had been right all along. Mariam kept thinking of his face in the upstairs window.
He let her sleep on the street. On the street Mariam cried lying down.
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