She was the one who put him down to nap, who played even-tempered peacemaker to her volatile sibling.
Around him, Aziza had taken to giving an exasperated, queerly adult headshake.
Aziza pushed the TV's power button. Rasheed scowled, snatched her wrist and set it on the table, not gently at all.
“This is Zalmai's TV,” he said. Aziza went over to Mariam and climbed in her lap.
The two of them were inseparable now. Of late, with Laila's blessing, Mariam had started teaching Aziza verses from the Koran.
Aziza could already recite by heart the surah of ikhlas, the surah of fatiha, and already knew how to perform the four ruqats of morning prayer.
“It's oil I have to give her,” Mariam had said to Laila, “this knowledge, these prayers.”
“They're the only true possession I've ever had.” Zalmai came into the room now.
As Rasheed watched with anticipation, the way people wait the simple tricks of street magicians,
Zalmai pulled on the TV's wire, pushed the buttons, pressed his palms to the blank screen.
When he lifted them, the condensed little palms faded from the glass.
Rasheed smiled with pride, watched as Zalmai kept pressing his palms and lifting them, over and over.
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