“It was just here,” Mariam said, and he cried, “No, it's lost, I know it. I just know it's lost! Where is it? Where is it?”
“Here,” she said, fetching the ball from the closet where it had rolled to.
But Zalmai was bawling now and pounding his fists, crying that it wasn't the same ball, it couldn't be,
because his ball was lost, and this was a fake one, where had his real ball gone? Where? Where where where?
He screamed until Laila had to come upstairs to hold him, to rock him and run her fingers through his tight, dark curls,
to dry his moist cheeks and cluck her tongue in his ear.
Mariam waited outside the room. From atop the staircase, all she could see of Tariq were his long legs, the real one and the artificial one,
in khaki pants, stretched out on the uncarpeted living room floor.
It was then that she realized why the doorman at the Continental had looked familiar
the day she and Rasheed had gone there to place the call to Jalil.
He'd been wearing a cap and sunglasses, that was why it hadn't come to her earlier.
But Mariam remembered now, from nine years before, remembered him sitting downstairs, patting his brow with a handkerchief and asking for water.
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