Then she saw them, dozens, hundreds, crowding in the shade of doorways and prison walls. She recognized a few friends of her father’s or of Malik’s, but most of the people seemed to be the poor. And a great many were women.

As the midday sun burned the sandstone walls of al-Masagin, Laila, blind- folded, was led out and tied to the stake. Scarcely a dozen yards away, Laila’s family were lined up, as stiff and rigid as statues. By law, they were compelled to be here, the men to share Laila’s shame and dishonor, the women to witness what could easily happen to them if they strayed from the rightful path.

Amira felt as if she might faint, but when she looked at Malik and saw how terrible he looked—his skin pasty, his face contorted with anticipated pain—she found her courage.

Slipping her hand into his, she held it tight. He was whispering something, and as she strained to hear, she realized it was a prayer. An official read a declaration of the crime and sentence. Then, at some signal Amira missed, Laila’s eldest brother stepped forward, a fist-sized stone in his hand. Only a few feet from his sister, he suddenly hurled the rock with all his might straight at her forehead.

This image burned itself into Amira’s brain. Did he throw with such strength out of hatred, for the shame Laila had brought her family—or out of love, to kill her instantly and spare her what was to follow?

Whatever his intention, he failed in it: at the last split second, Laila turned her head as if searching for someone—Amira could swear she looked directly at Malik—and the stone struck a glancing blow.

Blood gushed. Laila sagged, straightened, shaking her head as if to clear it.

And then came a sound like the snarl of a vicious dog unchained.

The crowd surged forward, almost fighting one another to get at the rock pile. Suddenly, the stones were flying as thickly as a flock of frightened white birds in the square. To Amira’s horror, the women were the fiercest executioners, screaming curses as they threw, then scurrying to grab another stone.

For a few seconds, Laila twisted, first to one side, then the other, as if trying to avoid her unseen attackers; then she collapsed in her bindings, the rocks thudding into her body, knocking her head loosely, sickeningly, from side to side. It ended as abruptly as a desert thunderstorm, a last stray stone rattling across the baked earth.

A man came out of the prison. He applied a stethoscope to Laila’s battered chest and nodded to a group of guards. Quickly, they carried the body back into the prison, without even wrapping it. Somehow, that final indignity tore at Ami- ra’s heart. Was Laila not to have a decent burial?