“Get away, you!” Zalmai cried. “Hush,” Mariam said. “Who are you yelling at?” He pointed. “There. That man.”
Laila followed his finger. There was a man at the front door of the house, leaning against it.
His head turned when he saw them approaching. He uncrossed his arms. Limped a few steps toward them.
Laila stopped. A choking noise came up her throat. Her knees weakened.
Laila suddenly wanted, needed, to grope for Mariam's arm, her shoulder, her wrist, something, anything, to lean on.
But she didn't. She didn't dare. She didn't dare move a muscle.
She didn't dare breathe, or blink even, for fear that he was nothing but a mirage shimmering in the distance,
a brittle illusion that would vanish at the slightest provocation.
Laila stood perfectly still and looked at Tariq until her chest screamed for air and her eyes burned to blink.
And, somehow, miraculously, after she took a breath, closed and opened her eyes, he was still standing there.
Tariq was still standing there. Laila allowed herself to take a step toward him. Then another. And another. And then she was running.
43. Mariam
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