And still her mother says nothing. Even a reprimand would be welcome. Tahera is bitter: her mother has chosen Seema. The prodigal daughter has returned, and the long-dutiful one is to be turned out for misbehavior, without even a chance to explain herself. Seema has stolen her mother as well. She tells herself she cannot forgive her sister, even if it means she cannot ask for forgiveness herself.

There should be taxis around the corner, two blocks away, and she begins dragging her suitcase in that direction. But first she must, she will, say goodbye—this could be the last time she sees her mother alive. She will not let herself be cheated of this moment too.

She turns around, sees Nafeesa following her. Tahera waits till her mother catches up.

They walk to the sound of suitcase wheels rumbling over the uneven pavement and the slap of Nafeesa’s slippers against her feet. The street is dark except for dull light bleeding out of a few lit doorways and bright white halos under the occasional streetlamps. When will her mother say something? Under one of the halos, Tahera allows herself a quick glance. Nafeesa’s blank gaze is on the pavement, as though mesmerized by the patterns there. She’s accompanying Tahera mindlessly, stopping when she stops, stepping off the pavement to cross the street when Tahera does. Her mother has escaped to some other world, become lost there.

Now they’re near the bustle of the main street. Time is running out, and Tahera has only to reach that brightly lit corner for her world to be altered, perhaps irrevocably. Say something, Ammi, she wants to cry out. She prays for something to change the course she’s on—perhaps she won’t find a taxi, perhaps she’s too late for the last flight to Dallas, perhaps she’s left her purse behind and cannot buy a ticket or board the airplane—even as she realizes that it’s in her power to turn back. Yet how powerless she feels.

At the street corner, she rummages through her handbag: she does have her credit cards and license. Is there anything she’s left behind? The only thing that comes to mind is the book of poetry Seema had given her. She’d seen it lying forlorn beside the Quran but had not packed it. Forlorn! The very word is like a bell to toll her back to herself.

And here is an empty yellow taxi drawing up at the traffic light. Is it a vision or a waking dream? Automatically she raises her hand to flag it down.

“To the airport.” Her voice is surprisingly firm, yet appears to be spoken by someone else, not her. Is she awake or asleep?