“Maybe you can go later?” the man switches on the ceiling fan. “Now is the time for prayer.”

The seniors nod in unison.

“Don’t go, dhikro,” a senior implores, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief folded into a square. “Your mother needs you. It is her darkest hour.”

“Paradise is at your mother’s feet, son,” adds another.

“Our prayers will help lift your father’s soul to heaven. Like a spiritual wind, you see.”

“And into Fana Fillah. ‘To Him we belong and to Him shall we return.’ It is his birthright as a Muslim. Submerge himself into the Almighty. Become one with Allah.”

“Stay and pray with us. This is your duty.”

Ashif looks from face to face until each one becomes the next, then the next. The room starts to revolve, at first slowly, then faster and faster until he can no longer focus. He sits down, his legs trembling.

“We mustn’t delay matters any further,” continues a senior, tilting his fedora hat up. “We were praying for his recovery, kumbey, the man had already expired. There’s no time to waste.”

“Yes, we’ve got to steer him back onto the right path, the path of Siratal-Mustaqeem. Allah is waiting.”

Layla shoots up to standing. She is ferocious. Powerful. A tigeress attacking a predator threatening her cub. “Then let Him wait!” she shouts. “Who are you to tell my son what to do?”

Ashif looks up. The seniors stare at Layla in disbelief. One elbows another. Others whisper. Someone yells, “Pisha Mowla! Such disrespect.” One man leaves the room, shaking his head. Two women clap.

“He is my son and he will do as he wishes,” she says then heads for the door. “Come, son,” she says, and Ashif follows.

In the hallway, Layla reaches up and takes Ashif’s face in her hands. “Go, son. Do what you need to do.”

“Are you sure, Mummy?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“But will you be okay alone?”

“Of course, I will be fine. And I won’t be alone. Where are they going to go,” she asks, pointing a thumb over her shoulder, “with their bhoffu-broken legs?”

Ashif laughs. So does she. They kiss goodbye.

“I’ll be back, Mummy.”

“I know, bheta,” she says and gives her son one final kiss.

Ashif walks briskly toward the exit, the heels of his shoes tap-tapping against the tile.

“Hey, Ash,” a voice calls from behind him.

Ashif turns to see Arzeen following him down the long hallway. He stops and walks toward her.

“I didn’t want to give these to your mother.” She hands him a set of forms. “The police report for the car accident. And the forms to release your father’s car.”

“Okay, thanks.” He glances at the papers. At the top of the first page, the Queen’s insignia with the words R.H. QUEEN REGINA underneath. A stamp diagonally across the page reads INVESTIGATION CLOSED.

“Also, this…” Arzeen removes an envelope from the front pocket of her scrubs. “Shafina sends her condolences.”

“She’s here?” He glances around, his heart pounding.