The world turned dark, though it burst into flames again as the blanket touched the charcoal and caught fire. And so did Saba’s thighs.

Saba turned her eyes away from the thatched roof, from the memory. As she turned to pick up the blanket given to her by the midwife, Saba felt dizzy. She leaned against the pole and closed her eyes. Memories that don’t fade away with time and distance are the ones written on your skin.

Since the midwife couldn’t find a spare blanket anywhere in the camp, she gave hers to Saba. The woman used her gabi as a bed, downgrading her comfort to separate Saba from her brother. But no one will, Saba vowed, remembering that night – her brother’s fingers and hers intertwining as their uncle knelt behind them.

No one will, Saba vowed again as she placed the midwife’s blanket against the wall between Hagos and her mother.

Saba and Zahra were strolling around the camp. The imam announced the evening prayer from the makeshift mosque bordered with red rocks. Kids ran around. Roasted coffee beans wafted in the air. Hold me, said Saba.

I thought you didn’t like to be that close, said Zahra.

Sometimes I do, said Saba.

You are moody, said Zahra. Just like me.

They laughed and held hands.

Saba?

Yes.

Can I be honest?

Saba paused and nodded. Yes.

Sometimes, your silence disturbs me, said Zahra. I mean, your brother’s is natural, but yours feels forced.

Saba didn’t say anything.

I worry about you.

Don’t, said Saba. It’s the sardines. My breath smells of fish. So I keep quiet.

I’m serious, said Zahra. Have you always been like this?

Zahra, how long have we been here?

You see what I mean? You are trying to change the subject.

Zahra glanced down at the watch on her wrist that had belonged to her mother. It will record the time passing, her mother had said before going to the front. So you know that there will come a time when we are together again. But the battery of the watch had died and now time stood still on Zahra’s wrist. Zahra had manipulated the watch so the two hands stood together, embracing. The mother and daughter inseparable in time, if not in place.

It doesn’t matter, said Saba, pulling Zahra’s hand. They continued their walk, zigzagging through the crowd to avoid people sitting in groups, others cooking. Milk spilled from a pot onto the open furnace. I love the smell of milk on charcoal, said Saba.

You are strange, said Zahra.

I never denied that, said Saba, grinning.

What a smile, said a man to Saba, standing in front of her.

Just keep walking, said Zahra to the man.

Can someone ration humour to this girl? said the man to those around him.

And can anyone ration him a brain? said Zahra, spitting.

The man was held back by his friends and the girls hurried down the pathway. I will get you, the man shouted at Zahra.