He replaces the handset on the phone and lies on the couch, stiff as a board. He feels old. Through the windows up near the ceiling he hears rain. The basement mildew stokes an itch in his eyes and throat. Diane and Jameel are at the mall with the girls. When they come home, they’re carrying big paper bags full of clothes for Lulu and Summer, a bread maker some relative in Jidda asked for, and a red Michael Jackson jacket with many, many zippers for one of Jameel’s nephews.

Muneer wonders if Diane has talked to Jameel.

“We should have asked if Lamees wants anything,” Diane says.

“I think it’s time for me to go home,” Muneer says.

The doorbell rings, and Diane worries that it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, out to save souls despite the pouring rain.

“I’ll scare them off,” Jameel says. “There’s got to be a Qur’an somewhere in the house.”

Diane puts a hand on his chest. “Leave them be. I’ll tell them we’ve already found the Lord.” She touches the cross at her neck and goes to the door.

Watching Jameel put items back into shopping bags, Muneer considers what he could possibly say about Summer’s schooling. He doesn’t think it’s his business, but what’s worse—a family choosing to be apart for a year, or a wife and daughter who resent their husband and father for a lifetime?

“Muneer!” Diane calls.

He trades places with her at the front door. Standing under a black umbrella is Hannah’s friend from the convenience store. She’s wearing her uniform and her eyeliner is smudged into angry storm clouds around her eyes.

“Hannah’s in Toledo,” she says. “She didn’t want to tell you, but I told her she should. So she said OK, I could tell you even though she didn’t want to.”

“How’d you find the house?”

She shivers from the shoulders up. “Can I come in?”

They sit at the kitchen table and Diane makes individual mugs of Lemon Zinger, sets a saucer in the middle of the table for their tea bags. Jameel puts baklava on a plate; the girl has no idea what it is.

“What did you say your name is?” Diane asks, though the girl hasn’t said.

“Joanie. I’m so sorry for bothering you. Hannah gave me your guys’ number and I got the address from 411. I thought it was better to come in person. She ran away. She says she’s never going back to Miss Sadie.”

“Miss Sadie,” Diane says. “Her mom?”

“Uh huh.” Joanie pulls apart a diamond of baklava and picks at the nuts inside.

Diane fishes the tea bags out of their mugs. “Hannah’s confused. Can you blame her? Her mom was her world, and she has to confront the lies.”