Near the well was a toolshed, and a bicycle leaning against the wall.
“Your father told me you like to fish,” Rasheed said as they were crossing the yard to the house.
There was no backyard, Mariam saw. “There are valleys north of here. Rivers with lots of fish. Maybe I'll take you someday.”
He unlocked the front door and let her into the house.
Rasheed's house was much smaller than Jalil's, but, compared to Mariam and Nana's kolba, it was a mansion.
The living room had a pistachio green leather couch. It had a rip down its side that had been clumsily sewn together.
The walls were bare. There was a table, two cane seat chairs, two folding chairs, and, in the corner, a black, cast iron stove.
Mariam stood in the middle of the living room, looking around.
At the kolba, she could touch the ceiling with her fingertips.
She could lie in her cot and tell the time of day by the angle of sunlight pouring through the window.
She knew how far her door would open before its hinges creaked. She knew every splinter and crack in each of the thirty wooden floorboards.
Now all those familiar things were gone. Nana was dead, and she was here, in a strange city,
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