And yet Hagos had brought that fragile thing the smugglers warned refugees against taking before they embarked on the camel journey. Even people break on the road to safety, said the smugglers, let alone mirrors.

Hagos climbed down from the lorry into Saba’s embrace. The scent of jasmine on his skin rose between them as she held him tighter. She pressed her hand into her brother’s and looked at the round hut with its cone-shaped thatched roof. It was bordered by some shrubs. A moth rested on one shrub, the circles on its wings fluorescent in the lorry’s headlights.

A distant hum grew into a growl that broke into a roar when one lorry after another pulled up into the camp. Noise erupted around Saba. Children shrieked. God was called upon. Ululations clashed with sobs. And as the lorries spread out and lit up various parts of the camp, the place glowed in fractions that looked like reflections of each other, one part duplicating itself here and there, clusters of huts casting shadows everywhere.

Saba watched as people disembarked from their lorries. Their shadows projected against the huts. Men and women like ants ferrying belongings on their backs and heads. Jute sacks. Clothes wrapped in scarves or gabis. Clay cooking-plate stoves. Children strapped to their mothers’ backs. One man carried on the back of a woman, his legs around her waist, his arms wound around her neck. The woman panted as she trudged past Saba.

Before he drove away, Tahir took out a pen from his pocket. Hagos, he said, you remind me of myself when I was your age. I used to be silent too until I found a pen.

Hagos, though, didn’t reach for the pen.

My son can’t write, read or speak, their mother said.

Tahir looked at twenty-something Hagos. Is this true, Hagos?

Hagos stared ahead, away from Tahir.

Saba nodded. Yes, it’s true.

Tahir left. And Saba already missed the smell of the lorry’s cabin, the sun-baked fruits on the suede dashboard, dates that his parents harvested at the bend of the Nile. She missed the generosity that flowed from Tahir’s hand. The same hand that gave her oranges, water, and gesticulated as he recalled his childhood memories under British rule, when he had to dip his tongue in cold water as if the only way to speak like the people of the North was to freeze his roots. He had also taken with him the way he spoke Arabic, in which every word stretched, each syllable extending its life on the tip of his tongue. In the camp, it would be rare to hear this accent again. Her thoughts darkened as more lorries departed.

Saba stared at the wooden door, its cracks visible in the light of their torch. Stench filtered through it. And darkness. Hagos held her hand as he pushed the door open. Her chest tightened. She turned around gasping for air. A nail protruding from the low door frame pulled out the pin holding her hair. Her sweaty locks tumbled down her face, concealing her eyes.