Community members settle in, taking up most of the chairs. Shamma removes a plate of tepla from her bag of naandi, the daily auction of food offerings at jamatkhana, and passes it around. Without being asked, Al-Karim takes orders for tea.

“Tim Hortons? Shabash. Would have brought a Thermos of chai from home had we known,” a senior says, shaking her head. All the seniors request double-doubles.

The sound of the large clock on the wall is a heartbeat that gets louder and louder until it feels like a pulse in Layla’s ears. She retrieves her cellphone from her handbag and wraps her fingers tightly around it. As she waits for news from the doctor, she thinks of the last time she saw Mansoor. Yesterday morning, on his way to breakfast with Ashif. He was in such good spirits. What happened to him after?

The attending emergency physician, a young man with dishevelled red-blond hair and a stethoscope folded into his jacket pocket, stands at the front of the waiting room. He holds a file splayed open in his hands. “Mrs. Visram?”

Arzeen holds Layla by the elbow as they follow Dr. Poole down a long corridor toward a room with the sign QUIET ROOM B. Why do they call it the Quiet Room? Is it to encourage people to keep their emotions in, silence themselves when they are being told the news? All Layla wants to do is to scream so loudly that her son will hear her.

The doctor holds the door open with an outstretched arm. Inside, there is a small white table with several chairs around it. Layla sits down, cradling her handbag in her lap. She places a palm over the bulge of her cellphone. Arzeen stands next to her, like a guard, her hand on Layla’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Visram, let me explain what has happened to your husband,” the doctor says as he pulls a chair next to her. “We’re not quite sure of the circumstances that led to his injuries, but we know that he must have been outside for quite an extensive period in these temperatures. He’s suffered from severe hypothermia. He wasn’t wearing proper clothing. He’s very lucky that he was found.”

“Outside?” Layla asks, puzzled.

“Yes. He was found in a farm field near Airdrie.”

“But he was supposed to be at the business. He is always at the business,” she says, her eyebrows knitted together. “What was he doing in Airdrie?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure of the details. The police will have them. They should be arriving soon. It will be a part of their investigation. But what I can tell you about is your husband’s health.”

Layla nods. The word investigation makes her nervous. She squeezes her cellphone more firmly.

“We’ve had to intubate your husband.” Dr. Poole rests both palms on the table. “Let me explain what that means. At some point your husband lost his ability to breathe on his own. This can happen when a body is traumatized. The body literally shuts down. Blood rushes away from non-vital organs and goes immediately to life-sustaining ones. The heart. The lungs. That’s actually a good thing, which probably sounds funny. But what happens is that our instinct for survival kicks in.”