full speed, in the tender place between the lower tip of the breastbone and the belly button.
She realized she had dropped Aziza, that Aziza was screaming. She tried to breathe again
and could only make a husky, choking sound. Dribble hung from her mouth.
Then she was being dragged by the hair. She saw Aziza lifted, saw her sandals slip off, her
tiny feet kicking. Hair was ripped from Laila's scalp, and her eyes watered with pain. She
saw his foot kick open the door to Mariam's room, saw Aziza flung onto the bed. He let go
of Laila's hair, and she felt the toe of his shoe connect with her left buttock. She howled
with pain as he slammed the door shut. A key rattled in the lock.
Aziza was still screaming. Laila lay curled up on the floor, gasping. She pushed herself up
on her hands, crawled to where Aziza lay on the bed. She reached for her daughter.
Downstairs, the beating began. To Laila, the sounds she heard were those of a methodical,
familiar proceeding. There was no cursing, no screaming, no pleading, no surprised yelps,
only the systematic business of beating and being beaten, the thump, thump of something
solid repeatedly striking flesh, something, someone, hitting a wall with a thud, cloth ripping.
Now and then, Laila heard running footsteps, a wordless chase, furniture turning over, glass
shattering, then the thumping once more.
Laila took Aziza in her arms. A warmth spread down the front of her dress when Aziza's
bladder let go.
Downstairs, the running and chasing finally stopped. There was a sound now like a
wooden club repeatedly slapping a side of beef.
Laila rocked Aziza until the sounds stopped, and, when she heard the screen door creak
open and slam shut, she lowered Aziza to the ground and peeked out the window. She saw
Rasheed leading Mariam across the yard by the nape of her neck. Mariam was barefoot and
doubled over. There was blood on his hands, blood on Mariam's face, her hair, down her
neck and back. Her shirt had been ripped down the front.
"I'm so sorry, Mariam," Laila cried into the glass.
She watched him shove Mariam into the toolshed. He went in, came out with a hammer
and several long planks of wood. He shut the double doors to the shed, took a key from his
pocket, worked the padlock. He tested the doors, then went around the back of the shed and
fetched a ladder.
A few minutes later, his face was in Laila's window, nails tucked in the comer of his
mouth. His hair was disheveled. There was a swath of blood on his brow. At the sight of
him, Aziza shrieked and buried her face in Laila's armpit.
Rasheed began nailing boards across the window.
The dark was total, impenetrable and constant, without layer or texture. Rasheed had filled
the cracks between the boards with something, put a large and immovable object at the foot
of the door so no light came from under it. Something had been stuffed in the keyhole.
Laila found it impossible to tell the passage of time with her eyes, so she did it with her
good ear. Azan and crowing roosters signaled morning. The sounds of plates clanking in the
kitchen downstairs, the radio playing, meant evening.
The first day, they groped and fumbled for each other in the dark. Laila couldn't see Aziza
when she cried, when she went crawling.