He slams open the door and rushes out into the hall. The antiseptic smell of the hospital assaults his nostrils. He starts to run to an exit sign. His legs buckle under him and in the middle of the hallway, Ashif falls to his knees.

When he’s calm, Arzeen leads him back to the family room. Layla calls him to her. She’s exactly as he left her: palms on her knees, a rosary pooled in her lap.

The room is so crowded now, he can barely push through. More people from the community arrive every minute. The seniors continue to pray, some silently, others out loud, all of them rocking back and forth in unison, pulling the beads of their tasbihs forward. A prayer to release his father’s soul. His nose prickles with the smell of sandalwood incense.

“I want to see Pappa,” Ashif says, walking toward Layla.

“You must be Ashif,” a voice behind him says.

He turns to see a man about his age in a shiny grey suit and a pale yellow shirt, no tie.

“Ya Ali Madad.” He extends his hand to Ashif. “I’m Naushad Jivraj, convener of the Mayat and Ghusal Committee. And this—” he pats the man next to him, an older man with a Canadian flag and an Ismaili flag pinned at diagonals on his tie “—is Shamshu Bhai, my vice-convener.”

Shamshu Bhai shakes Ashif’s hand, too. “Take a seat, son. We are here to make the necessary arrangements for the cleaning and burial.”

“I’d like to see my father first,” Ashif says.

“His body has been moved to the funeral home,” Naushad says.

“We needed to be speedy, you see,” Shamshu Bhai adds. “We have to bury within forty-eight hours of death.”

“I’d like to go to the funeral home, then.” Ashif feels that everything is happening too quickly. Yet too slowly. As if a tornado is spinning around him in slow motion.

“Impossible, son,” Shamshu Bhai says. “It is a private matter between Allah and the departed soul.”

“Private matter!” Ashif says more loudly than he intended. “But I’m his son.”

“They are from the Ghusal Committee, son,” Layla says, clutching her purse. “Please, we must respect them.”

“Ash,” Arzeen says, handing him a paper cone. “Have some water.”

“Please, let me explain,” Naushad continues, gently touching Ashif’s elbow. “In our tariqa, the body means nothing. Once the soul departs, it’s just an empty vessel. There is no value in it.”

The paper cone trembles in Ashif’s hands.

“Come, sit down,” Shamshu Bhai says, gently leading him to a chair.

Ashif sits down. The antiseptic smell invades his nostrils again, making his stomach churn. An image from his high school biology class forms in his mind: jars of frogs lining a shelf. Bodies suspended in formaldehyde. His father is not alive, not dead. All those hours, while Ashif was sleeping last night, during his run this morning, during his meetings. His father was dead. Why didn’t he know earlier? He should have known earlier.