She had never before walked through the ‘Staff Only’ door. The excitement of knowing she was going to see Kassim again, after a few steps, after a few minutes. And she was not an outsider today, not a customer, but one of ‘them’, pushing open a private door, as if she were Samia, as if she were part of the family too. It was dark and she paused until her eyes adjusted. She was in a narrow corridor. Stacks of soft drinks came into view, a pile of chairs, bulk-bought aluminium foil containers, plastic plates, paper napkins, bin liners. There were also piles of the things that were going to the refugees. Nappies, blankets, shoes, toys, tins of food and packets of pasta. She walked a few steps. Coats and jackets were hanging on a row of hooks that ran along the side of a wall. She found a free hook and hung up her father’s suits. She heard a sneeze and said, ‘Kassim?’ But there was no reply. A small room, not much bigger than a wardrobe, opened out after the row of jackets. She heard a faint whisper and the rustle of movement and knew he was there. ‘Kassim?’

It was then that her heart started beating, her blood turned cold, because he was not within arm’s reach, because he was down on the ground, and it was a shock to see him like that, so still and grovelling, not searching for something that had fallen, not answering her. It was fear that she felt. And wanting him to reassure her, wanting the shock to go away. Why was he like that, his forehead, nose and hands pressed onto the floor, why …? He sat up and did not speak to her, did not acknowledge her presence. Descended though Dina was from generations of Muslims, she had never seen anyone praying. On television, yes, or a photo in a schoolbook, but not within arm’s reach, not in the same room, not someone she knew, someone that she loved. When she understood, her pulse rate dulled back to normal, her fear turned to embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled and turned away. If she had accidentally pushed the toilet door open and found him sitting on the loo, she would have apologised in the same way. Like seeing Samia that day feeding her baby, the intimacy of it, something fleshy and vulnerable.