“Who are you writing to?” His father sparked up to see him busy. He walked to the door to unlock it and let in the light.

Aziz had wanted to discuss what the news was from Soumeya’s family. This was a perfect time before the others were awake. He blew out the candle, and the charred smell of the wick came into the room.

“Father, I am pleased to tell you I am writing to Soumeya.”

The candle smoke twirled between them. His father’s expression was strangled; his knee must be bothering him. It had always ached in the morning.

“I have written to her every day this week.” Aziz pulled out a stack of envelopes from between the cushions. “My idea is to save them. To offer them as a gift to her when we meet. This way she will see how often I think of her. What I want for our lives together.”

“Aziz.”

“You think this is too much.”

“Well. Let me explain.”

“I am sure you told me she can read.”

“Yes. But—I—”

“There will be nothing to embarrass her,” Aziz said. “I write things her father could read.”

“Her father—”

“Needs to see I am strong enough for the orchards. I will be! I swear to you. This will be off soon,” he said, knocking on his cast.

His father said nothing. Aziz tried to settle down. He was like a Ping-Pong ball: scramming over there, bopping over here. Soumeya would despise such a jackanapes. He remembered her photograph, the intelligent defiance. Just then, he saw.

“She has changed her mind,” Aziz whispered, almost to himself. A spreading of his thoughts began an unanchored commotion of searching.

“She did not change her mind.” That was his father. Aziz could just hear his words. Somehow his father was facing him, taking both his hands in his. Aziz pulled away.

“Her father changed his mind,” Aziz said.

“Her father is heartbroken. He—I—”

Aziz’s mother had walked in from the hall. “What a day this is,” she sang into the room. Then she saw them. She looked to her husband for an explanation.

“Soumeya,” he said, to her questioning look.

“Who did she marry?” Aziz asked. He was furious his mother had appeared. Now his father would try to temper it so she would not be upset. He was forever diluting things to protect her.

“Yassirah,” his father said to his mother. He sounded like she might know what to do. Her? The worrier? And he never called her by her given name. It was usually pet names: turtle soul, inch child.

“Hmaam,” his mother said, using Aziz’s boyhood name and kneeling on the floor beside the couch. “Pigeon,” she said again. “Look at me. Look.” He wouldn’t.

“Please, my son,” his father said.

“Soumeya is dead.” His mother said it.

Aziz looked at her uncomprehending. “Dead?”

“Dead,” his father said.

“Dead,” Aziz said. He looked closely at his mother. “Dead.”