We were at the movie theater this one time; the auditorium was crammed. We were in our seats, we’d only been there a few minutes, when she said, “I’m cold, really cold,” and hunched her shoulders. It was confusing—I felt fine, and so, it seemed, did everyone else—but I put my arm around her all the same. Then, minutes into the film, I started to feel an icy trickle down the middle of my back, which quickly spread through my body. I immediately understood that it was the air conditioners: set at full power to counteract the crowd, they were now defeating us.

Or maybe, I thought, it was the power of suggestion, transmitted from Alya’s body to mine.

Fresh proof of her talents came daily.

Alya stared out of the window at the autumn sky, then turned to me, face shining, and asked, “Think it’ll rain?” More an expression of joy than a question. She was looking at me with a strange yearning, as though I were the one who would bring the rain.

I shrugged. “Who knows?”

But as soon as we’d sat to eat we heard drops patter on the pane. At first, it was as though we were hearing things, but then it gathered into a steady drumming, and Alya turned in her chair to look out at the sky. She seemed lost in her happiness. I stared at her, amazed. Her tongue was clicking and popping, singing the sound of the rain, and as she ate she swayed her head to left and right, to a rhythm only she could hear.

Another time, that same extraordinary winter, she told me that when she arrived from the country where she’d been raised, she was struck by how little it rained here. She had started watching out for it, as alert to the signs of it as the small creatures snug in their burrows or sheltering in the trees’ canopy. And she had learned its names. Her voice firm and clear, she said, “That thundering is hazim. The raindrops pounding the street outside? Waqaa.”

Then she said, “Let’s go.”

We were in a café where I liked to sit. Half its complement of tables and chairs looked out over a quiet street that always seemed to enjoy its own private sense of order—the tall buildings surrounding it kept off the burning sun, while its distance from the main road held the roar of cars at bay. The presence of several government agencies nearby protected against dirt and disorder.

We had sat down. The café was half-full. I was drinking my coffee and she was drinking grape juice and humming when suddenly she said: “Let’s go.”