Saba turned the wick down and leaned against the wall. There had been a storm that night, and the rain that began when Saba lay down on her blanket hadn’t stopped. She brought her legs up against her chest. Humid air seeped through the cracks in the window and the door.

The rain outside intensified, dispersing the warm air inside the hut. Hagos wrapped his arms around himself. He used to hold her as they slept. There were moments when Saba would wake up in the middle of the night to find her legs embraced by his arms. His cheek resting on her feet. A smile on his face.

She heard the rumbling of the sky, the hissing wind, and saw a flash of lightning through the window. She imagined the thatch stripped off the roof, the rain leaking through. Her head above the water, so she could hardly breathe.

She fell asleep with that thought, with the feeling of suffocation, her head leaning against the wall. And when she woke up some time later, both her mother and her brother were still asleep. Her blanket was dry, though her underwear was wet.

The next morning was sweltering, the breeze heavy with moisture. Little heaps of dry mud dotted the square, and the red rocks of the mosque were covered in sand, the outline of the mosque obscured, once again. God is everywhere, Saba repeated to herself, recalling the imam’s words on that first morning.

She was on her way to the river, barefoot. As she looked at her toes covered in mud, Saba felt that her dress had shrunk, travelling up on her growing legs, stretched by her widening hips. Her knees were visible. It seemed miraculous to her that she was still growing, while feeding on sardines and the powdered milk and rice that had arrived only recently.

Saba walked with firm steps. The muscles in her calves pressed her feet down. She left permanent footprints. This was her wilderness. She entered the damp narrow path that led to the river. A path like a black viper slithering between the grass, pushing against the cactuses and thorny shrubs. A lizard crept from underneath a rock. An old man came down the slightly sloping land from the opposite direction. He walked unaided, his gait youthful, his age visible only in his wrinkles and eyes that squinted to fit what was worth observing around him. The old man paused. Good morning, bella, he said.

Saba stopped. She stared at her shadow on the path, the outline of the bucket against the grass. Why are shadows always dark? she thought, recalling the time her landlord back home took her to his studio and showed her the negatives of the pictures he was developing. Then he came behind her in the darkroom and squeezed her waist and Saba discovered that everyone has a dark side.

The old man came closer, their shadows merging on the long, dry grass. You might not know it, he said to Saba, but I have been watching you ever since we arrived. My lady, you have grown beautifully.