Cool pastel colors. A woman in white. A touch on the lips, rough, soft, cold. Ice in a cloth. It hurt, but the dampness was heaven. She was dying of thirst. “God be praised,” said the woman. “God be praised for saving Your Highness from such a terrible accident.”

Accident? Amira tried to say the word, but the sound that came out was unrecognizable. Her face felt like a melon rotted to bursting. Worse was the burning deep within her. Yet, somehow the pain seemed far away. Slowly, she under- stood. Hospital. Nurse. Drugs. She remembered why she was here. She slept.

When she woke, the pain was anything but far away. The nurse, a middle-aged Pakistani, brought a pill. Amira took it greedily.

“My son,” she said.

“Your what? Oh, your son. I’m sure he’ll be along soon enough, Highness. But we wouldn’t want him to see his mommy in her present mussed condition, would we?”

“No.”

“But your husband has been here so much that half the patients think he’s a doctor.”

The nurse gently inserted a thermometer beneath Amira’s tongue. “Such a charming man. In case you’re wondering, he’s not angry about your driving the car. Just look at all the flowers he’s brought.”

Half a dozen large bouquets crowded the room. Glancing at them, Amira realized that she was seeing with only her right eye. The left wouldn’t open. Driving the car.

“No, no, Highness. Mustn’t touch the dressings.” The nurse removed the thermometer, made a note on the chart, and rattled on in the maternal tone of her vocation. “You were a naughty girl, Highness—you could have died, God forbid. But the merciful God was on your side. It’s thanks to Him that Dr. Rochon showed up when he did.”

“Dr. Rochon? Philippe Rochon?”

“Exactly. He arrived the very day they brought you in, thank God, and Dr. Konyali asked him to perform the surgery. Not that Dr. Konyali couldn’t have done it himself, of course.”

The painkiller was taking effect. Amira wondered if she were hearing the woman correctly. “Dr. Rochon is here? And he did surgery on me? What surgery?”

The nurse became tight-lipped. “Best wait for the doctor to discuss that, Highness.”

“No. You tell me. I’m not superstitious. I won’t blame you for bad news. In fact, I’ll thank you. What surgery?”

There was pity in the nurse’s eyes. “You had internal injuries, Highness. You were hemorrhaging. They had to operate to save your life. They removed one of your kidneys. And your womb.”

How sad, thought Amira. Yet, it all seemed so distant, as if it concerned someone else. Thank God for the painkiller—morphine, whatever it was. Her womb. How sad.

“At least you have the son, Highness. And you are alive.” “Do you have children?”