She hobbled back to the cottage, where Moni and Salma fussed over her. She lay on the sofa and cried out that her body hurt, all her bones were broken and, for sure, she must be dying. Alarmed, the other two surrounded her, examining and questioning. She had bruised her knees and cut her palms, but it was her mind that was more troubled. All the bad dreams that had belonged to dark nights flared up, brought to life by the sudden fright and physical pain. She saw, again, fresh blood spilt, whiteness that wasn’t porridge but brain; she smelt charred flesh and heard children screaming. She hadn’t escaped. In this idyllic location the war could come and not from the internet or the television screen. It could rise from inside her because she had not left it behind. She had brought it with her on the airplane.

And the earth had wanted her, had tried to hug her in, to cradle her. ‘I was going to be buried alive!’

‘You must have imagined it,’ said Salma. She noticed that Iman was dressed as Jessie and, for all her bravery, she was terrified of dark enclosed places. ‘We will go back to the very same spot where you fell, and you will see that the ground is flat and normal.’

Of course, it did not make sense. The earth was not like the wall of a stomach, capable of clenching. But the earth could contract, could it not? If Iman had been better educated she would have known. Or at least known how to find the information. Fear and muddled thoughts. ‘Mummy, mummy,’ she wailed. ‘I want my mummy.’

Moni could no longer help it. She turned away from the scene on the sofa, struggling to hide her amusement. Salma, though, was visibly moved. ‘My darling, you are fine, you are fine.’ She fetched a pocket mirror and Iman examined her face with care. No scratch or blemish on the beautiful cheeks, that bluish black smudge on the chin certainly dirt and not a bruise.

Iman eventually settled down, her moans subsiding, her anguish blending into peevish requests. She became a queen reclining, with two ladies-in-waiting fetching and carrying for her. Moni was dispatched to the kitchen to make soup. Salma bustled with ice pack, hot-water bottle and paracetamol. Cups of tea. Iman sighed, and tears rolled down her cheeks. For a couple of hours, Salma and Moni sat on the floor next to her couch.

‘No one is prettier than Iman,’ said Salma. ‘Even if she has bruised herself. Even if she is crying like a baby.’

‘I don’t like dogs,’ said Moni. ‘Even puppies. They are smelly and nasty. Why would anyone want them in their home, on their sofa, shedding hair everywhere? Then they take them out and let them run amok, leaping on people and frightening them.’