separated from the life she'd known by valleys and chains of snow capped mountains and entire deserts.
She was in a stranger's house, with all its different rooms and its smell of cigarette smoke,
with its unfamiliar cupboards full of unfamiliar utensils, its heavy, dark green curtains, and a ceiling she knew she could not reach.
The space of it suffocated Mariam. Pangs of longing bore into her, for Nana, for Mullah Faizullah, for her old life.
Then she was crying. “What's this crying about?” Rasheed said crossly.
He reached into the pocket of his pants, uncurled Mariam's fingers, and pushed a handkerchief into her palm.
He lit himself a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He watched as Mariam pressed the handkerchief to her eyes.
“Done?” Mariam nodded. “Sure?” “Yes.” He took her by the elbow then and led her to the living room window.
“This window looks north,” he said, tapping the glass with the crooked nail of his index finger.
“That's the Asmai mountain directly in front of us, see? And, to the left, is the Ali Abad mountain. The university is at the foot of it.”
“Behind us, east, you can't see from here, is the Shir Darwaza mountain.”
Every day, at noon, they shoot a cannon from it. Stop your crying, now. I mean it.
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