Laila could find no reasonable answer for anything Mariam said.
But she rambled on anyway, incoherently, childishly, about fruit trees that awaited planting and chickens that awaited raising.
She went on about small houses in unnamed towns, and walks to trout-filled lakes.
And, in the end, when the words dried up, the tears did not, and all Laila could do was surrender
and sob like a child overwhelmed by an adult's unassailable logic.
All she could do was roll herself up and bury her face one last time in the welcoming warmth of Mariam's lap.
Later that morning, Mariam packed Zalmai a small lunch of bread and dried figs.
For Aziza too she packed some figs, and a few cookies shaped like animals. She put it all in a paper bag and gave it to Laila.
“Kiss Aziza for me,” she said. “Tell her she is the noor of my eyes and the sultan of my heart. Will you do that for me?”
Laila nodded, her lips pursed together. “Take the bus, like I said, and keep your head low.”
“When will I see you, Mariam? I want to see you before I testify. I'll tell them how it happened.”
“I'll explain that it wasn't your fault. That you had to do it. They'll understand, won't they, Mariam? They'll understand.”
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