She sat up and watched Zalmai sleep for a while, the ball of his fist under his chin.
Laila pictured Mariam sneaking into the room in the middle of the night as she and Zalmai had slept, watching them, making plans in her head.
Laila slipped out of bed. It took effort to stand. She ached everywhere.
Her neck, her shoulders, her back, her arms, her thighs, all engraved with the cuts of Rasheed's belt buckle.
Wincing, she quietly left the bedroom. In Mariam's room, the light was a shade darker than gray,
the kind of light Laila had always associated with crowing roosters and dew rolling off blades of grass.
Mariam was sitting in a corner, on a prayer rug facing the window. Slowly, Laila lowered herself to the ground, sitting down across from her.
“You should go and visit Aziza this morning,” Mariam said. “I know what you mean to do.”
Don't walk. Take the bus, you'll blend in. Taxis are too conspicuous. You're sure to get stopped for riding alone.
“What you promised last night...” Laila could not finish. The trees, the lake, the nameless village.
A delusion, she saw. A lovely lie meant to soothe. Like cooing to a distressed child.
“I meant it,” Mariam said. “I meant it for you, Laila jo.” “I don't want any of it without you,” Laila croaked.
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