Sometimes she took a plate of leftover white rice and a scrap of bread to the living room, by the window.
From there, she could see the roofs of the one story houses on their street.
She could see into their yards too, the women working laundry lines and shooing their children,
chickens pecking at dirt, the shovels and spades, the cows tethered to trees.
She thought longingly of all the summer nights that she and Nana had slept on the flat roof of the kolba,
looking at the moon glowing over Gul Daman, the night so hot their shirts would cling to their chests like a wet leaf to a window.
She missed the winter afternoons of reading in the kolba with Mullah Faizullah,
the clink of icicles falling on her roof from the trees, the crows cawing outside from snow burdened branches.
Alone in the house, Mariam paced restlessly, from the kitchen to the living room, up the steps to her room and down again.
She ended up back in her room, doing her prayers or sitting on the bed, missing her mother, feeling nauseated and homesick.
It was with the sun's westward crawl that Mariam's anxiety really ratcheted up.
Her teeth rattled when she thought of the night, the time when Rasheed might at last decide to do to her what husbands did to their wives.
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