But the mosque is not what she’d expected. The prayer hall is spacious, occupying the entire second floor of the building. It is carpeted in red and aglow with light streaming in through large floor-to-ceiling windows. The light reflects off the carpet and suffuses the space with a ruby hue. Nothing she’s seen this morning matches this, not the Golden Gate Bridge, not the view of the city from the top of Coit Tower. Nothing she knows of San Francisco has prepared her for this.

“Subhan’Allah,” she exclaims involuntarily, before realizing that the congregation has already started the prayers. The zuhr is recited quietly, there’s only the buzz of the verses whispered, the takbir barely audible: Allahu Akbar. She’d interrupted the namaz.

She stands by the entrance to the prayer hall, watching. She is awed, dazzled by the light. The space seems to pulse, the walls receding and then closing in, for every time the worshippers bend forward or genuflect, the room flares instantly brighter, from the reflections off their backs. Like crystals in a chandelier. The ayat from surah An-Noor comes to her mind: Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth. His light is like that of a crystal lamp in a niche, burning brilliant like a star, even the oil glowing. Light on light!

Only then does she notice that there are women praying in the hall as well. Unlike in Irvine, where the women have their own room, here they’re all gathered to one side, while the men occupy the area in front of the mihrab. There’s no barrier separating them.

It’s the same surah An-Noor that enjoins modesty, chastity, fidelity.

“Yes, they’ll do that in San Francisco,” she can hear Ismail say, deriding this lack of separation as an unnecessary innovation, a false notion of equality trumping every other consideration. How familiarity breeds contempt—contempt for the purity of the body, contempt for the merit of Allah’s decrees. She wouldn’t be surprised if Seema and Fiaz are having an affair after all. The affair could even be the reason for Seema’s divorce, adultery just another transgression added to her already long list.

But instead of the punishment that the surah decrees, Seema is to be rewarded. A new baby and a new husband—Muslim, good-looking, smart, successful—and Seema is all set for a prodigal daughter’s welcome. No doubt their mother will now broker a reconciliation between estranged daughter and father. No doubt Seema’s many lapses will be forgiven, and Seema will soon be reseated on her pedestal.

Tahera won’t join this perverse San Francisco congregation but will pray after it finishes. Seema, Fiaz, and her mother must wait. She pictures them in the car driving away without her: it only needs her father now to join in their complicity.