Layla silently begins calling the names of the Imams. Mawlana Ali, Mawlana Hussein, Mawlana Zayn al-Abidin, Mawlana Muhammad al-Baqir.

“He didn’t have any vitals when he was found. But the good news is that we were able to resuscitate him in the ambulance. That’s the miracle of the technology we have today. They inserted a tube into his throat which was then hooked up to a ventilator. It’s this machine that breathes for him….”

Layla can barely hear the doctor. She hears the words CT scan, x-ray, blood pressure, but his voice is a distant echo. Her prayers are roaring in her mind. YA ALI. YA ALI. YA ALI. It’s only when the doctor reaches over and gently touches her arm that she hears him again.

“Mrs. Visram, from what we can see, your husband has not sustained any bodily injuries with the exception of a laceration on his left leg and frostbite on several toes and fingers. But that’s nothing to worry about. We’re taking care of that. But what we can’t be sure of is if he has sustained any internal injuries. That’s our first priority. We need to run some tests to find out, but unfortunately we can’t do that until his body warms up.”

The doctor goes on to explain the process of rewarming. He speaks about blankets, a machine that blows hot air over Mansoor’s body, warm fluid IVs, and bladder flushes.

Layla imagines Mansoor encased in ice. She is not interested in the doctor’s technical details. She just wants to know that her husband will be all right. “When will he be unfrozen?”

“If you’re asking about rewarming, the times vary. It could be a couple of hours or the better part of a day or longer. Your husband’s core temperature fell to dangerous levels. Maybe you’d like to see him now?”

“No.” Layla’s hands begin to tremble. She does not want to see her husband the way the doctor has described him, like some kind of machine. “I will see him with my son.”

“Will he be here soon?”

“I hope so.”

“Okay.” Dr. Poole pushes his chair back. “As soon as we know anything, you’ll be the first to hear.”

Outside the Quiet Room, Layla pulls out her cellphone. She presses on the number one, her hands still trembling. The phone makes a sing-song of sounds as it dials Ashif’s number. She is relieved to hear her son’s voice on the other end of the receiver. She wells up with tears and is about to say something when she realizes that it is only his voicemail. “Hey, you’ve reached Ash. You know the drill.” Where is Ashif? She hopes he hasn’t left for Vancouver already. She leaves him a brief message and asks him to return her call, though she knows he will not like this message. “Be clear, Mummy. You know how busy I am. I need to know what you’re calling for. Don’t just say, call me. Give me specifics.”