He’s gearing up for round two when the limousine driver taps on his horn, just as Ashif had asked him.

“I have to go,” Ashif says, standing up from the table.

“Already?” Layla asks.

Mansoor stands, too. “But I still have some items to discuss with you, son.” He picks up his business plan and loan papers from his seat.

“You haven’t even seen Shamma and Almas Masi, either,” Layla says.

“Sorry, my meetings start soon,” Ashif says, slipping on his jacket. “I can’t be late.”

“Of course! Go, son. He doesn’t have time to waste on those old ladies, Layla. Isn’t that right, son? You have big business to tend to.”

Layla follows Ashif to the front door with a bulging plastic bag. As he puts his shoes on, she pulls a wrinkled set of forms out from the bag and hands them to him. “I found these behind your father’s desk when I was cleaning.”

“What is it?” he asks, examining the papers, but it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out. Commercial bank loan forms with his father’s name, the house as collateral, and a large sum of money written under “Funds Requested.” He scrunches up the forms and pitches them at the wall, clipping the mirror. It swings dangerously. “Not again!” he says, clenching his jaw.

“Please, bheta. Keep your voice down.” She nervously looks over her shoulder. “Your father will hear.” She scoops up the forms and stuffs them into her apron pocket.

“He’s in debt again?” he asks in a harsh whisper. “Unbelievable!”

She shrugs. “You know him. He doesn’t tell anyone anything. Least of all me. But what else can it be?”

Ashif pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. He wants to march into his father’s office and straighten that man out. Once and for all. But he knows he can’t. He needs to control himself for his mother’s sake. An argument with him will only make things hard for her after he leaves, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Now I understand why he’s been working so hard,” she says. “I wake up to go to morning prayers, and there he is, at his desk in a suit, working already. Sometimes he is even talking to himself. I come home from jamatkhana in the evening, same story. Working, working, working. All the time. And at his age? No wonder his mind is kachumber. All jumbled up these days. And if I tell him he needs to rest, take it easy, he only eats my head. I don’t know what to do, bheta. The business is going to be the death of him.” Her voice is trembling, her eyes moist.

The ground beneath Ashif turns to quicksand. The same sinking feeling. He feels he can’t breathe. He takes his mother into his arms. “Please, Mummy. Don’t cry.”

“We need to help him, son. Please. Once he solves his business problems, he will be okay.”

He knows by we she means you and he also knows what he needs to do. His stomach clenches into knots. “Don’t worry, Mummy. I’m going to take care of everything.”