N—though he was not called N at that time—had been sitting in the office with his father when it happened. It was a Sunday, one of those depressing Sundays that neither adults nor children know how to use. His father was behind his desk, his eyes glued to a book lying open in front of him, and N’s eyes were glued to his father.

At first, he thought his father was playing a game. He sometimes pretended to be a statue, then moved as soon as N came near, making N jump in fright and run away, squealing. N had snuck through the door and was sitting on the leather sofa in the corner, holding in his laughter with both hands and pressing his back into the cushions. The leather was smooth, soft, and cool on his bare legs below his shorts. It took some time before N decided that his father wasn’t playing with him but was entirely absorbed in whatever he was reading. The waiting made N sleepy, and he dozed off for some seconds or minutes—he didn’t know how long—until he was woken by the noise his father made by standing up and scraping his heavy chair over the tiles. N looked at the clock on the wall; the hands pointed to 10:25.

His father said nothing. Didn’t sigh or hold his breath. He wasn’t panting and his chest didn’t heave. All he did was get up on a chair, open the window, and go through it. He stepped forward confidently, as though the air itself would hold his weight and let him walk through the void. He stepped and fell, just like that, fast and easy. N heard him hit the ground, and he went over to the window to look. His father was lying on the sidewalk, his face pointed up, eyes half-open, a thread of blood running from his nose and mouth. His right leg was folded inward; the left was straight but twisted at the ankle, broken. His arms too looked both straight and twisted. How had he managed to step out as he had and land on his back rather than his stomach? Had he twisted around in midair because he was afraid to meet the ground head-on? Or because he wanted to be found with his eyes open? Or because he wanted to give a farewell glance to where Thurayya was sleeping in the next room? In any case, with his exit through the window, N’s father had left his life. He’d left Thurayya, Sa’id, and N. He had left his pain, his disappointment, his failures, and his sickness of heart. He had treated the ill and taken away their pain until his own blood went bad.