A Thousand Splendid Suns

On the way back, Aziza's high-spirited fa9ade waned the closer they got
to the orphanage. The hands stopped flying
up. Her face turned heavy. It happened every time. It was Laila's turn
now, with Mariam pitching in, to take up the chattering, to laugh
nervously, to fill the melancholy quiet with breathless, aimless
banter-Later, after Rasheed had dropped them off and taken a bus to
work, Laila watched Aziza wave good-bye and scuff along the wall in the
orphanage back lot. She thought of Aziza's stutter, and of what Aziza had
said earlier about fractures and powerful collisions deep down and how
sometimes all we see on the surface is a slight tremor.
* * *
"Getaway, 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