It burned even more this time, and not just her throat but her chest too.
And then she was coughing, and wheezing. Gasping. But breathing.
Her good ear rang. The first thing she saw when she sat up was Rasheed.
He was lying on his back, staring at nothing with an unblinking, fish-mouthed expression.
A bit of foam, lightly pink, had dribbled from his mouth down his cheek. The front of his pants was wet.
She saw his forehead. Then she saw the shovel. A groan came out of her. “Oh,” she said, tremulously, barely able to make a voice, “Oh, Mariam.”
Laila paced, moaning and banging her hands together, as Mariam sat near Rasheed, her hands in her lap, calm and motionless.
Mariam didn't say anything for a long time. Laila's mouth was dry, and she was stammering her words, trembling all over.
She willed herself not to look at Rasheed, at the rictus of his mouth, his open eyes, at the blood congealing in the hollow of his collarbone.
Outside, the light was fading, the shadows deepening. Mariam's face looked thin and drawn in this light,
but she did not appear agitated or frightened, merely preoccupied, thoughtful,
so self-possessed that when a fly landed on her chin she paid it no attention.
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