Hearing the scraping of chairs against the floor, Amira scampered away. But as soon as Omar left for his office, she waylaid her brother. Bahia was right, Amira thought—Malik hadn’t slept. Though he had shaved and dressed in a fresh robe, his eyes were bloodshot and weary. “I heard you talking to Father. Why did you tell him you didn’t want to go to the Sorbonne? That isn’t true, you know it isn’t.”

“It is now, little sister,” he said, ruffling her hair. “I have responsibilities, remember? It’s a small enough sacrifice …” His voice trailed off, his sentiment a reminder of what was soon to happen.

The morning stretched before them. What was there to do on such a day?

What was there to say?

Amira wanted to be with her brother, but he chose solitude, shutting him- self in his room. She tried to do the usual things, but when she tried to read her books, the words made no sense. When she tried to help Bahia in the kitchen, she felt as if she might burst out of her skin.

And still the hours had to be endured.

At one o’clock, after the noon prayers, Laila would die.

Just before eleven, Malik burst into Amira’s room. “I can’t help it, I’m going down there. To be near her.”

“No, Malik, don’t. Someone might suspect—”

“No one will suspect anything. I’ll just be a rich kid looking for a nasty little thrill.” Bitterness was hard in his voice.

“Then I’m going with you.”

“Absolutely not. This isn’t going to be something a girl—a kid—should see. “I wasn’t too much of a kid to see the inside of al-Masagin prison last night. Have you forgotten already?” Malik needs me, she thought. The way he is now, who knows what he might say or do?

They argued. Malik forbade her to go, and she defied him. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll go on my own.”

Malik said nothing. Amira took that as consent.

Long before the sun reached its midday position, she stole out of the house, with her boy disguise in a bag. Retracing her steps of last night, she ran to Malik’s car, where she slipped on the white thobe, the ghutra, and sunglasses.

O

The barren square was baking with the strongest heat of the day, a thick wooden post planted at its center. Someone—who? Amira wondered—had dumped a pile of large, smooth, white river stones a few paces from the post.

At first, Amira thought there must be some mistake, some reprieve. Except for a policeman or two, the square was empty of people.