"Aishee," Aziza mewled."Aishee."
"Soon." Laila kissed her daughter, aiming for the forehead, finding the crown of her head
instead. "We'll have milk soon. You just be patient. Be a good, patient little girl for
Mammy, and I'll get you some aishee. "
Laila sang her a few songs.
Azan rang out a second time and still Rasheed had not given them any food, and, worse,
no water. That day, a thick, suffocating heat fell on them. The room turned into a pressure
cooker. Laila dragged a dry tongue over her lips, thinking of the well outside, the water
cold and fresh. Aziza kept crying, and Laila noticed with alarm that when she wiped her
cheeks her hands came back dry. She stripped the clothes off Aziza, tried to find something
to fan her with, settled for blowing on her until she became light headed. Soon, Aziza
stopped crawling around. She slipped in and out of sleep.
Several times that day, Laila banged her fists against the walls, used up her energy
screaming for help, hoping that a neighbor would hear. But no one came, and her shrieking
only frightened Aziza, who began to cry again, a weak, croaking sound. Laila slid to the
ground. She thought guiltily of Mariam, beaten and bloodied, locked in this heat in the
toolshed.
Laila fell asleep at some point, her body baking in the heat. She had a dream that she and
Aziza had run into Tariq. He was across a crowded street from them, beneath the awning of
a tailor's shop. He was sitting on his haunches and sampling from a crate of figs. That's
your father, Laila said. That man there, you see him? He's your real baba. She called his
name, but the street noise drowned her voice, and Tariq didn't hear.
She woke up to the whistling of rockets streaking overhead. Somewhere, the sky she
couldn't see erupted with blasts and the long, frantic hammering of machine gun fire. Laila
closed her eyes. She woke again to Rasheed's heavy footsteps in the hallway. She dragged
herself to the door, slapped her palms against it.
"Just one glass, Rasheed. Not for me. Do it for her. You don't want her blood on your
hands." He walked past She began to plead with him. She begged for forgiveness, made
promises. She cursed him. His door closed. The radio came on.
The muezzin called azan a third time. Again the heat. Aziza became even more listless.
She stopped crying, stopped moving altogether.
Laila put her ear over Aziza's mouth, dreading each time that she would not hear the
shallow whooshing of breath. Even this simple act of lifting herself made her head swim.
She fell asleep, had dreams she could not remember. When she woke up, she checked on
Aziza, felt the parched cracks of her lips, the faint pulse at her neck, lay down again. They
would die here, of that Laila was sure now, but what she really dreaded was that she would
outlast Aziza, who was young and brittle. How much more could Aziza take? Aziza would
die in this heat, and Laila would have to lie beside her stiffening little body and wait for her
own death. Again she fell asleep. Woke up. Fell asleep. The line between dream and
wakefulness blurred.
It wasn't roosters or azan that woke her up again but the sound of something heavy being
dragged. She heard a rattling Suddenly, the room was flooded with light. Her eyes
screamed in protest. Laila raised her head, winced, and shielded her eyes. Through the