Chapter 2: Soap Between Sisters in Steam
The apartment smelled like burnt toast and shame.
Zainab had been up since fajr, scrubbing the kitchen counters with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The sponge was shredded, the tiles bleached white, and still she scrubbed. Her hands were raw. Her back ached. The radio in her room was off for the first time in years, and the silence pressed against her eardrums like a physical weight.
From the bedroom came the sound of Muhammad dragging the broken bed frame across the floor. Wood scraped against tile. He swore under his breath. Then he laughed—that same easy laugh from last night—and Mahra's voice joined his, high and bright, like nothing had happened.
Like Zainab hadn't stood in their doorway and watched.
Like she hadn't felt something crack inside her chest when he'd said you wanted to remember what it feels like to want something.
She scrubbed harder. The sponge disintegrated completely, leaving yellow foam smeared across the counter. She stared at it, breathing hard.
"You're going to wear a hole in the counter."
Zainab didn't turn around. She knew that voice. Knew the shuffle of bare feet on tile, the rustle of cheap cotton. Mahra had inherited her mother's walk—that same unhurried saunter that made every room feel smaller.
"The counter's fine," Zainab said.
"The counter's going to need a priest if you keep looking at it like that."
Mahra appeared in her peripheral vision, leaning against the doorframe. She was wearing Muhammad's jalabiya again—the white one with the frayed collar, the one that hung open down the front. Her hair was a tangled mess. There were marks on her neck, small purple bruises that bloomed like flowers.
Zainab looked away.
"There's no bread," she said. "I checked. We're out."
"I'll go to the shop later."
"You'll send Muhammad."
"I'll go." Mahra pushed off the doorframe, padding across the kitchen. She opened the fridge, stared into its empty interior like it might reveal something new. "He's busy with the bed. And I need air."
Zainab's hands stilled on the counter. "You're not angry with me."
It wasn't a question.
Mahra closed the fridge. She turned, and for a moment, her face was unreadable—that same mask she'd worn as a teenager when she was deciding whether to lie or tell the truth.
"I'm not angry," she said finally. "I'm confused."
"About what?"
"About why you stayed." Mahra crossed her arms, but it wasn't defensive. It was like she was holding herself together. "You could have walked away. You should have walked away. But you didn't."
Zainab reached for another sponge. Her fingers trembled. "I don't know why."
"That's what you said last night."
"It's still true."
Mahra studied her for a long moment. Then she sighed, pulling herself onto the counter, letting her legs dangle. The jalabiya rode up, exposing her thighs. Zainab fixed her eyes on the window above the sink.
"Manal's coming today," Mahra said.
"I know."
"The bus gets in at noon."
"I know."
"She's going to have to share the room. With us, I mean." Mahra picked at a loose thread on the jalabiya. "The couch is broken. The bed is broken. Everything's broken."
"I noticed."
"And you're okay with that?"
Zainab finally looked at her. "She's your friend. She needs a place to stay. Where else would she go?"
Mahra's expression softened. Just slightly. "You're a good person, Zainab."
"I'm a tired person."
"Same thing."
The words hung between them, heavy with things neither of them wanted to say. Then Muhammad appeared in the doorway, shirtless, covered in dust, and the moment shattered.
"Bed's completely dead," he announced. "The frame's cracked in three places. We need a new one."
"We need a lot of things," Mahra said.
"We need a bed more than we need most things."
"We need a job more than we need a bed."
Muhammad grinned, crossing to the fridge. He pulled out a carton of milk, sniffed it, made a face, and put it back. "I have a job. It's called passing my exams so I can get a job."
"That's not a job. That's a plan."
"Plans are jobs in progress."
Mahra laughed despite herself. Zainab watched them—the easy way they moved around each other, the way Muhammad's hand found Mahra's knee as he passed, the way Mahra leaned into his touch like a flower toward light. They were beautiful together. Young and beautiful and so full of want that it spilled over everything.
She left them in the kitchen. Walked to her room. Closed the door. Sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the radio on the nightstand.
She didn't turn it on.
---
Manal arrived at twelve-forty-seven, dragging a duffel bag that had seen better decades. She was taller than Mahra by half a head, with skin the color of clay and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her hair was cropped short, a decision that made her face look sharp and elegant. She wore jeans that had been patched at the knees and a t-shirt so faded the design was invisible.
She stopped in the doorway, duffel bag thumping against the frame, and looked at the apartment like it was a puzzle she was trying to solve.
"It's small," she said.
"It's home," Mahra replied, pulling her into a hug. "Get in. You're letting the heat out."
Manal laughed, stepping inside. Her eyes swept over the space—the kitchen, the hallway, the closed door to Zainab's room. "Where do I sleep?"
"There's a room. There's a bed. Well—" Mahra winced. "There's a mattress. The frame broke."
"The frame broke."
"Last night."
"Was it—" Manal's mouth curved. "Was it doing what I think it was doing?"
Mahra's cheeks flushed. "Don't."
"Oh, it was definitely doing what I think it was doing."
"Manal."
"I'm just saying. That's impressive. I've never broken a bed."
"You've never had a bed to break."
Manal laughed, dropping her duffel on the floor. "Fair point." She looked around again, her expression shifting into something quieter. "Where's your grandmother?"
"In her room. She's—" Mahra paused, searching for the right word. "Adjusting."
"To what?"
"To everything." Mahra grabbed Manal's hand, tugging her down the hallway. "Come on. You need to shower. You smell like the bus."
"I am the bus. I've been on it for eleven hours."
They passed Zainab's door. It was closed, but Mahra could hear movement inside—the creak of the bed, the shuffle of feet. She didn't knock. She wasn't sure what she'd say if Zainab answered.
The washroom was at the end of the hall. Small, cramped, with cracked tiles and a showerhead that had been leaking since before Muhammad moved in. Mahra pulled Manal inside and shut the door.
The air was already warm, humid. Steam curled from the shower even though no one had turned it on yet. The mirror was fogged. Someone had left a bar of lavender soap on the edge of the sink.
"Okay," Manal said, looking around. "This is cozy."
"It's a washroom."
"It's half a washroom. I've seen closets bigger than this."
"Then you've seen some very big closets."
Manal snorted. She pulled her t-shirt over her head, tossed it toward the sink. It missed, landing in a heap on the floor. Her bra followed. Then her jeans, her underwear. She stood there, naked and unselfconscious, like she'd been doing this her whole life.
Mahra had known Manal since they were twelve years old. They'd shared everything—secrets, clothes, dreams, the same toothbrush when they'd forgotten theirs at a sleepover. Nakedness was nothing new. But something about this moment felt different. Charged.
She turned away, reaching for the shower knob.
"Water's cold," she warned.
"Water's always cold."
Mahra twisted the faucet. Nothing happened. She twisted it harder. A clank, a hiss, and then—a burst of water so hot it scalded her fingers.
"Okay, not cold," she amended.
"It'll cool down."
They stepped into the spray together. Manal's shoulder pressed against Mahra's, their bodies fitting into the narrow space like puzzle pieces. The water cascaded over them, sluicing down their backs, pooling at their feet before swirling toward the drain.
Mahra reached for the soap. Her fingers were slick, and the bar slipped immediately, tumbling from her grasp.
"Shit—"
It slid down Manal's back. A long, slow trail of lavender-scented foam, tracing the curve of her spine, dipping into the hollow at the base of her spine, then lower. Over her ass. Between her thighs.
Manal gasped.
Mahra froze.
"Sorry," Mahra said. "I didn't—it just—"
"It's fine." Manal's voice was breathless. "It's soap. It slips."
"Yeah. Soap slips."
Neither of them moved.
The water kept falling. The soap lay on the floor of the shower, half-dissolved, still gleaming. Manal bent to pick it up—slowly, deliberately—and when she straightened, she was closer than before. Close enough that Mahra could see the beads of water on her eyelashes, the way her lips parted.
"You're staring," Manal said.
"So are you."
Manal held out the soap. "You want it back?"
Mahra took it. Her fingers brushed Manal's palm, and something electric passed between them. Something that shouldn't have been there. Something that had probably always been there, buried under years of friendship and denial.
She turned away, lathering the soap between her hands. The silence was thick, broken only by the hiss of the shower.
Then Manal laughed.
It was quiet, almost shy. Mahra turned to look at her.
"This is weird," Manal said.
"A little."
"Only a little?"
"Maybe a lot."
They both laughed, then. The sound echoed off the tiles, bounced around the tiny room, dissolved into the steam. Mahra passed the soap back. Manal caught it without looking, without flinching.
They washed in silence after that. But there was a rhythm to it now—the pass of the soap, the brush of fingers, the shared breath. When Manal needed the shampoo, Mahra handed it to her. When Mahra reached for the conditioner, Manal was already holding it out.
Zainab watched from the doorway.
She hadn't planned to. She'd only wanted to check on Manal, to welcome her properly, to pretend she wasn't falling apart. But the door was cracked—always cracked, always open—and the sight inside stopped her cold.
Her granddaughter. Her granddaughter's friend. Wet and gleaming, passing soap between them like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
The soap slipped again. Manal caught it against her hip, fingers splayed. Mahra's hand followed, steadying it, but not pulling away. Her palm rested on Manal's hip, just above the bone.
Neither of them moved.
Zainab's throat tightened.
Then Manal turned. Reached for something on the shelf above the sink. Muhammad's toothbrush. The blue one, with the worn bristles.
She held it up. "Yours?"
Mahra looked at it. Looked at Manal. Then she reached for her own toothbrush—the red one—and shrugged.
"He won't mind."
They brushed their teeth together, standing so close their foreheads almost touched. Foam built at the corners of their mouths. Manal said something—Zainab couldn't hear what—and Mahra laughed, mouth full of toothpaste.
Then Mahra leaned in.
It wasn't a kiss. Not exactly. Her lips parted, and she let the foam slide from her mouth into Manal's open lips. Manal laughed, choked, and passed it back. They were spitting foam at each other, giggling like children, like lovers, like something in between.
Zainab's hand found her own belly. Pressed low. Hard. She didn't know why. She only knew that watching them made her feel like she was burning from the inside out.
The water stopped.
Mahra turned off the tap. She looked up, saw Zainab in the doorway. Her eyes went wide.
"Zainab—"
But Zainab was already walking away. Her jalabiya clung to her damp skin, soaked through with sweat or steam or something else. Her feet left wet prints on the tile. Behind her, she heard Manal's voice, low and questioning.
"Was that—"
"Shh."
Zainab's door closed. The radio clicked on. Some old love song, crooning about lost chances and second glances.
She sat on her bed. Pressed her hand to her belly again. Felt something she hadn't felt in years—a pulse, a heat, a want so sharp it cut.
The door opened.
Muhammad stood there, leaning against the frame, a towel draped over his shoulder. He'd been in the other room, working on something—she could see ink stained on his fingers. He looked at her, then at the radio, then at her hand, still pressed low on her stomach.
"Interesting choice of station," he said.
"It's the only one I like."
"The one about second glances?"
"It's not about that."
"It's called 'Second Glances,' Zainab."
She looked away. "It's about lost chances."
"Same thing."
He pushed off the frame, crossing to her. He didn't ask permission. He just sat on the edge of her bed, close enough that she could smell him—sweat and dust and that same warm skin. He smelled like work. Like effort. Like a man who wasn't afraid of his own hands.
"You know," he said, "when I first moved in here, I thought you hated me."
"I did hate you."
"And now?"
She didn't answer.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her. Not through her. At her. His eyes were dark, thoughtful. The same way they'd been last night, when he'd asked her why she'd stayed.
"You're going to leave," he said.
Zainab blinked. "What?"
"Eventually. You're going to leave. Or you're going to stay and go crazy. There's no in-between."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He said it simply. Like it was a fact. "You're like me. You need space to breathe. This apartment is too small. It's suffocating you."
"You're suffocating me."
"Maybe." He grinned. "But I'm also the only one who sees it."
Her hand tightened on her belly. "Why are you here, Muhammad?"
"Mahra sent me. She wants to know if you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"Fine. I'm not fine." The words came out sharp, jagged. "I'm confused. I'm angry. I'm—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know what I am."
Muhammad nodded. He didn't try to fix her. He didn't try to explain. He just sat there, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
"The washroom's free," he said finally. "If you want to shower."
"I don't."
"You should. You're dripping."
She looked down. Her jalabiya was soaked through, clinging to her breasts, her thighs. It was indecent. She should have been embarrassed. She was.
But when Muhammad's eyes dropped to her body—casual, appreciative, not hiding—she didn't cover herself. She didn't look away.
"The bed's broken," she said.
"I know."
"Where are you going to sleep tonight?"
He smiled. Slow. Deliberate. "I was hoping you'd let me figure that out."
He stood. Walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"Manal's staying," he said. "That makes four of us in this apartment. Two rooms. One washroom. One broken bed." He looked over his shoulder at her. "Things are about to get interesting, Zainab."
He left.
The radio played on.
Zainab sat there, dripping, burning, listening to a song about second glances.
And for the first time in years, she didn't turn it off.
The radio crackled through a commercial break, some advertisement for detergent that promised to remove even the most stubborn stains. Zainab didn't hear it. She was still sitting on the edge of her bed, still dripping, still pressing her palm against the soft swell of her belly. Her jalabiya had gone cold against her skin.
She stood. Peeled the wet fabric over her head. Let it fall to the floor in a heap. Her body was her own again—bare, dry, no longer clinging to anything.
The drawer beside her bed held three jalabiyas, all identical, all gray. She pulled one on. The cotton was rough against her nipples, already stiff from the cold. She didn't bother tying it. What was the point?
From the hallway came the sound of Manal's voice. "So this is your room. It's smaller than I remember."
"It's the same size. You've just gotten bigger."
"Ha. Ha."
Zainab moved to the door. Leaned against the frame. The hallway was empty, but light spilled from the bedroom—Mahra and Muhammad's room, the room that used to be hers before they moved in, before everything changed.
She walked toward it. Slowly. Quietly.
The door was wide open. Manal stood in the center of the room, duffel bag at her feet, turning in a slow circle. Mahra was sprawled on the mattress—just the mattress now, the frame gone, propped against the wall in pieces—watching her with an expression that Zainab couldn't quite read.
Muhammad was nowhere. Probably in the kitchen. Probably making tea.
"The ceiling has water stains," Manal observed.
"It has character."
"It has mold."
"Character mold."
Manal laughed. She dropped onto the mattress beside Mahra, bouncing slightly. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. "I can't believe I'm here."
"You said that three times on the phone."
"I keep saying it because I keep not believing it."
Mahra rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. "You don't have to stay. If it's too much—"
"It's not too much."
"I'm serious. If you need to leave—"
"I don't need to leave." Manal met her eyes. "I need to be here."
The words hung between them, thick with meaning. Zainab stood in the hallway, watching, and felt that same burning sensation from before—the heat, the pulse, the want.
She should have turned away. Should have gone back to her room, turned the radio louder, pretended she hadn't seen anything.
She stayed.
---
Dinner was rice and beans. The beans came from a can. The rice was slightly undercooked because the stove only had two working burners and both were temperamental. Muhammad served it in four mismatched bowls, and they ate sitting on the floor because the kitchen table was covered in his books.
Manal ate with her fingers. She scooped rice into her mouth, chewed with her eyes closed, made sounds of appreciation that bordered on obscene. "This is good," she said. "This is really good."
"It's rice and beans," Mahra said.
"It's the best rice and beans I've ever had."
"You're starving."
"I'm appreciative."
Muhammad watched them from across the circle, his bowl balanced on his knee. He hadn't touched his food yet. He was too busy watching Manal—the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she fit into the space like she'd always been there. Like she belonged.
Zainab noticed. She noticed everything. She noticed the way his eyes lingered on Manal's hands, on her mouth, on the curve of her neck. She noticed the way Mahra leaned into Manal's shoulder, casual and possessive. She noticed the way Manal didn't pull away.
The rice was bland. The beans were cold. Zainab ate anyway.
"So," Manal said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "what's the sleeping situation?"
Muhammad finally took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. "Good question."
"The mattress is in our room," Mahra said. "We can all fit. It'll be tight, but—"
"I'm not sleeping on the floor," Zainab said.
No one spoke.
"I didn't say you were," Mahra said carefully.
"You were going to."
"I wasn't."
"You were thinking it."
Muhammad set his bowl down. "No one's sleeping on the floor. We'll figure it out."
"How?" Zainab's voice was flat. "Four people. Two rooms. One broken bed. How do we figure it out?"
Manal cleared her throat. "I can sleep in the kitchen."
"The kitchen has roaches."
"I've slept with roaches before."
Muhammad shook his head. "You're not sleeping in the kitchen."
"Then what?"
Silence. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing music—faint, tinny, an old love song.
Zainab stood. Brushed rice from her jalabiya. "I'll take the floor."
"Zainab—"
"I said I'll take the floor." She walked to the sink, dropped her bowl in, didn't rinse it. "I'm going to bed."
She could feel their eyes on her as she left. Three pairs of eyes, watching her spine, her hips, the sway of gray cotton against her thighs.
She didn't look back.
---
The floor was hard. Zainab lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the water stains. She could hear them through the wall—murmuring, shifting, the creak of the mattress as someone moved.
She pressed her hand to her belly again. The heat was still there. Dormant but not gone. Waiting.
The door opened.
Zainab didn't turn. Didn't need to. She knew the footsteps. Soft, bare, familiar.
Mahra lay down beside her. Not touching, but close. Close enough that Zainab could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"You're going to be cold," Mahra said.
"I'll manage."
"It's tile. It's hard and cold and you're going to wake up with a backache."
"I've had worse."
Mahra turned onto her side. Zainab could feel her eyes, even in the dark. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Punishing yourself."
"I'm not punishing myself."
"You are." Mahra's voice was soft, but firm. "You've been punishing yourself since we moved in. Since before that, probably. Since Baba died."
Zainab closed her eyes. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to talk about it."
"Then don't talk. Just listen." Mahra's hand found hers. Squeezed. "You're allowed to want things, Zainab. You're allowed to feel things. You're allowed to be alive."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Zainab opened her eyes. The ceiling blurred. She blinked, and the blur became water, and the water slid down her temples, into her hair.
"I don't know how," she whispered.
Mahra didn't answer. She just held her hand. And after a while, she got up and went back to her room, and Zainab was alone again.
---
Morning came gray and humid. The power had gone out sometime in the night, and the fans had stopped, and the air was thick enough to chew. Zainab woke to the sound of arguing.
"She can't sleep on the floor again." That was Muhammad. His voice was rough with sleep.
"She won't listen to me." That was Mahra.
"Then make her listen."
"How?"
"I don't know. Figure it out."
Zainab sat up. Her back ached. Her neck ached. Everything ached. She stood, stretched, and walked to the kitchen.
Manal was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She was wearing one of Mahra's dresses—a yellow thing that hung loose on her frame. Her feet were bare. Her hair was a disaster.
"Good morning," she said.
"Is it?"
"It's morning. The good part is up to you."
Zainab grunted. She filled a glass with water from the tap, drank it slowly. The power was still out. The fridge was warm. Everything was going bad.
"We need to go to the market," Zainab said.
"We need to fix the bed first."
"We need to fix everything."
Manal turned. Her eyes were dark, earnest. "I can help. If you let me."
"Help with what?"
"Whatever needs helping."
Zainab studied her. Tall, beautiful, unburdened. She couldn't have been older than twenty-two, but there was something in her eyes—a knowledge, a patience—that made her seem older.
"You're like her," Zainab said.
"Like who?"
"Mahra. You see too much."
Manal smiled. "Is that a bad thing?"
"I haven't decided yet."
---
The market was chaos. Vendors shouted from stalls. Flies buzzed around meat that had been sitting in the sun too long. Children ran barefoot through the aisles, chasing chickens, chasing each other.
Manal walked ahead, weaving through the crowd with an ease that Zainab envied. She stopped at a stall selling tomatoes, haggled with the vendor, won. Then she moved on to onions, garlic, a bag of rice that she insisted on inspecting grain by grain.
Zainab followed. Watched. The girl knew what she was doing. She was efficient, methodical, unafraid to argue.
"You've done this before," Zainab said.
"Since I was twelve. My mother died. Someone had to feed my brothers."
"How many brothers?"
"Four."
"And you fed all of them?"
"I fed all of them. Clothed them. Kept a roof over their heads." Manal stopped at another stall. Picked up a bunch of parsley. Sniffed it. "They're all grown now. They don't need me anymore."
"So you came here."
"I came here."
"Why?"
Manal set the parsley down. Looked at Zainab with those dark, knowing eyes. "Because Mahra asked."
"That's it?"
"That's enough."
Zainab didn't have an answer for that. They walked in silence, buying bread, cheese, a small bag of olives. The sun rose higher. The heat pressed down like a hand.
Then Manal stopped.
Zainab almost ran into her. "What—"
She followed Manal's gaze. Across the street, standing in the shade of a sagging awning, was a man. Tall, gaunt, with a beard that needed trimming and clothes that needed washing. He was staring at Manal. She was staring back.
"Do you know him?" Zainab asked.
Manal didn't answer.
The man smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who had found something they'd been looking for. Someone who knew what he was going to do next.
He started toward them.
Manal grabbed Zainab's arm. "Walk."
"What?"
"Walk. Don't run. Just walk."
Zainab walked. Her legs felt strange, disconnected from her body. Manal's grip was tight, almost painful. Behind them, footsteps. Steady. Patient.
"The apartment," Manal whispered. "How far?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
"Can we make it faster?"
Zainab looked at her. The girl's face had gone pale. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. She was scared.
"Who is he?" Zainab asked.
"Someone I used to know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
They turned a corner. Then another. The footsteps followed. Zainab's heart was pounding. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She couldn't run. She couldn't—Manal slipped.
It happened so fast. One moment she was beside Zainab, gripping her arm. The next, she was on the ground, hands splayed, knees scraped, groceries scattered across the pavement. Tomatoes rolled into the gutter. The bag of rice burst open, spilling white grains like sand.
Manal tried to get up. Her ankle buckled. She cried out, sharp and pained, and fell again.
Zainab dropped to her knees beside her. "Manal—"
"He's coming."
"I know."
"He's—"
"I know." Zainab grabbed her arm. Pulled. Manal screamed. "Get up. Please. Get up."
Manal tried. She put weight on her ankle, gasped, crumpled. Her face was white now, streaked with tears she was trying to hide.
"I can't," she said. "I can't."
The footsteps stopped.
Zainab looked up. The man was standing over them, blocking the sun. His shadow fell across Manal's prone body. He smiled again.
"Hello, habibti," he said. "Did you miss me?"
Manal didn't answer. She was shaking. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, on the spilled rice, on anything but his face.
Zainab stepped between them.
She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know what she was going to say. She only knew that she couldn't let him touch the girl. Not like this. Not after what she'd survived to get here.
"You need to leave," Zainab said. Her voice was steady. Stronger than she felt. "Now."
The man laughed. "And who are you? Her mother?"
"I'm the person who's going to make you regret this."
The laugh faded. His eyes narrowed. "You don't want to threaten me, woman."
"I'm not threatening. I'm promising."
They stared at each other. The street was empty now. Everyone else had disappeared. It was just the three of them, and the heat, and the spilled rice.
Then the man took a step back.
"I'll find you," he said. Not to Zainab. To Manal. "You know I will."
He walked away.
The world rushed back in. The sound of traffic. The shouts of vendors. The buzz of flies. Manal let out a breath that sounded like a sob.
Zainab knelt beside her. Touched her shoulder. "We need to get you home."
Manal nodded. She was crying now. Silent tears that carved paths through the dust on her cheeks. Zainab helped her up. Manal leaned on her, hopping on one foot, and together they started the long walk back.
---
Muhammad was waiting at the door when they arrived. He took one look at Manal's face, at her swollen ankle, at the torn dress, and his expression hardened.
"What happened?"
"He came back," Manal whispered.
"Who?"
"Rashid."
Muhammad's jaw tightened. "Where?"
"The market. He—"
"Get her inside. I'll be back."
He was gone before Zainab could stop him. She watched him run down the street, shirtless, barefoot, fists clenched.
"Zainab?" Mahra appeared in the doorway, her face confused. "What's going on? Where's Muhammad—" She saw Manal. Stopped. "Oh god. Oh god, Manal—"
She rushed forward. Took Manal from Zainab's arms. Held her. Manal collapsed against her, sobbing now, the sound raw and broken.
Zainab stood there. Her hands were empty. Her chest was full.
She turned. Walked inside. Sat on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, beside the pile of Muhammad's books. She picked one up. Didn't open it. Just held it, like a shield, like a prayer.
The door slammed. Footsteps. Muhammad appeared in the kitchen. His knuckles were bruised. There was blood on his lip.
"Did you find him?" Zainab asked.
"No."
"Then what happened?"
"I hit a wall." He laughed, short and bitter. "It was the only thing I could reach."
He sat down across from her. His back was against the stove. His breathing was ragged. He looked at her—really looked—and his eyes were soft, worried, tired.
"Thank you," he said. "For protecting her."
"I didn't protect her. She fell."
"She fell. You stood. That's protection."
Zainab looked down at the book in her hands. The spine was cracked. The pages were yellow. It smelled like dust and ink and something old.
"What do we do now?" she whispered.
Muhammad didn't answer.
The radio in her room played on. Somewhere in the apartment, Mahra was murmuring to Manal, soft words that sounded like a lullaby. The power flickered back on. The fans began to spin.
And Zainab sat there, holding a book she couldn't read, and felt something shift inside her. Something opening. Something breaking. Something beginning.