“I'm on to you both. I won't be made an ahmaq, a fool, in my own house.”
He threw Mariam one last, murderous stare, and gave the girl a shove in the back on the way out.
When she heard their door close, Mariam climbed back into bed, buried her head beneath the pillow, and waited for the shaking to stop.
Three times that night, Mariam was awakened from sleep.
The first time, it was the rumble of rockets in the west, coming from the direction of Karteh Char.
The second time, it was the baby crying downstairs, the girl's shushing, the clatter of spoon against milk bottle.
Finally, it was thirst that pulled her out of bed. Downstairs, the living room was dark, save for a bar of moonlight spilling through the window.
Mariam could hear the buzzing of a fly somewhere, could make out the outline of the cast iron stove in the corner,
its pipe jutting up, then making a sharp angle just below the ceiling.
On her way to the kitchen, Mariam nearly tripped over something. There was a shape at her feet.
When her eyes adjusted, she made out the girl and her baby lying on the floor on top of a quilt.
The girl was sleeping on her side, snoring. The baby was awake.
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