“Of course.” Al-Karim dials into her voicemail for her then hands the phone to her.

She hopes it is Ashif who’s called. Maybe his plans have changed and he’s coming home again? Or maybe he wants to tell her how his breakfast with his father went yesterday.

A woman’s voice booms into her ear. “Hello, this is Sunnydale Hospital. We’re sorry to leave this as a message. We’re calling to inform you that Mansoor Visram was admitted to Emergency at four this morning. When you come to the hospital, please check in with Patient Services on the main level. Thank you.”

The word emergency shatters in her mind like an icicle. She drops the phone. It clangs onto the bus floor. She feels dizzy. “Ashif,” she says, as if that is enough to summon him.

Al-Karim retrieves the phone and listens to the message. “Don’t worry, Aunty,” he says, cupping her shoulder. “I’ll take you. Arzeen works at that hospital. I’ll ask her to meet us.”

She nods but her instinct is to call Ashif. She takes her phone from Al-Karim and starts to dial and then stops. She shouldn’t worry him uselessly. She will wait to find out what’s happened to Mansoor first. Please, Mowla, let my husband be okay.

The seniors file through the hospital’s revolving doors like schoolchildren through a turnstile. Layla tried to protest, but they insisted on keeping her company. “Vando-nye,” she told them. “I’ll be all right.” Shamma and Almas were with her. “No, no, mustn’t be alone,” one senior said, resting her hand on Layla’s shoulder from the seat behind, her fingertips stained with henna.

“Yes, exactly,” another senior added. “Strength in numbers.”

The seniors follow Al-Karim down a brightly lit corridor toward the hospital registration desk where Al-Karim’s wife, Arzeen, is waiting for them in green scrubs, the baggy top hiding the roundness of her pregnant belly. She waves at Al-Karim. “Hey, babe,” she mouths. He waves from the back of the group.

“Ya ali madad, Aunty.” She embraces Layla as far as her stomach allows and kisses her on each cheek. “Everything will be okay,” she whispers.

“Inshallah.” Layla clutches her bag. “What has happened to Uncle?”

“We don’t know yet, Aunty. We need to wait for the doctor.”

“Is Dr. Murji here?” Layla asks, hoping for an Ismaili doctor. Not that she knows him personally. But he is the vice-chair of the Ismailia Health Care Board, and, as part of his duties, he gives speeches at all the jamatkhanas on health issues affecting the community.

“No, Aunty. I wish he was working today, too. Another doctor will meet us soon.” Arzeen waves the group forward; her wedding ring glitters on her small hand. “Hullo, vinjay. Let’s go,” she says enthusiastically, as if she’s leading a tour.

The waiting room looks like a seashell with its long curved wall that separates it from the hallway. Pumpkin-coloured chairs circle the room. It is empty except for an old Sikh man who is lying down across three chairs. He unhooks his arm from over his eyes and looks up at them for a second before returning to his original position on his makeshift bed.