From the kitchen window, Layla sees Mansoor pull into his parking spot. Why is he home so early? It’s only six. He doesn’t come home until she’s back from jamatkhana at nine.

Mansoor walks in with a mess of papers pressed against his chest and his briefcase. “Where’s my son?” he asks, setting his things down on the dining table, crushing a napkin shaped into a rose. The table is already set for tomorrow’s lunch.

“Tomorrow. He’s coming tomorrow for lunch,” she says.

“Impossible! He said today.”

“No, Tuesday. The day before…”

Mansoor doesn’t wait for her to finish and walks away. She hears the door of his bedroom open and close. Her bedroom, too. The bathroom.

When he returns, she reminds him that tomorrow is the right date. “The day before Lailatul Qadr, remember?”

“Oh-ho, Layla. How would I know when that is?” He drags a dining chair out and sits down heavily.

She quickly moves a plate setting out of his way.

“Sometimes I can’t keep things straight,” he says, shaking his head. “Things are slipping away from me…”

“Why don’t you rest for a little while? Then you’ll be fresh.”

“There’s no time to rest!” he snaps. “I have so much to do. You know that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I have to…a man cannot go out worse off than how he came in. I have to finish…”

“Don’t worry, you will finish,” she says, though she is not sure what he means.

“You think so?” he asks like a child looking for approval.

“Yes, of course!” she says, trying to cheer him up. “Let me make you some tea, okay?”

“Yes, tea. Let’s have tea. That would be nice,” he says, slumping back into his chair.

Suddenly, her husband looks so small to her, as if his body has shrunk, and Layla’s mind begins to spin with worry.

Layla arrived at Vienna International Airport with a suitcase in one hand and Ashif’s hand in the other. He was close to two and now walking and talking. Almost a year after they first arrived in London, she received a letter from Mansoor telling her that he was at an interim camp in Austria. He had sent the letter through a man at his camp who had relatives in London. The man’s cousin, Farida, spent months making inquiries before she finally found Layla and Ashif. At first, Farida thought she had found the wrong woman. “But the woman I am looking for only has one child, not two,” she said, pointing to the bulge in the blanket tied across Layla’s body like a baby sling. “No, no,” Layla said, opening the blanket to reveal the hot-water bottle she used to stay warm. “It’s me, only. Layla Visram.”

At the airport, she spotted Mansoor behind the glass wall of the crowded meeting area with his briefcase between his feet. He was wearing his wedding suit, the one he only wore at their anniversary parties. He had on the metal-tipped shoes, too. It was only when she pulled Ashif closer that she realized how much weight Mansoor had lost. The suit hung on him like a blue gunnysack. Her heart sank, as if into a swamp. What had happened to her husband?