Shair is sleepless too. I wonder if his wife is watching him pace their apartment in the middle of the night or if she learned long ago to sleep through his midnight agitations. I don’t care what she thinks or knows, really. Over the years I decided to focus my energies on the man who could have saved us but didn’t.

It is three o’clock in the morning, far too early to go to the hospital, and I’m not in the mood for a run just now. I rake my fingers through my hair, furious with Shair for robbing me of sleep.

A glass of water sits on my coffee table, an industrial piece with a pop-up top. It is made of raw mango wood, stained a light golden brown that lets the grain tell its story. I see feathers and speckled waves, cheetah spots and wavy tresses. I open the top and pull out Clay Porter’s book. I turn on the lamp and begin reading.

In the first chapter, Clay describes Afghanistan before the war. He writes about the jewel-tipped branches of her orange, pear, and apricot trees. He writes about the women with beehive coifs and European hippies in fringed vests and shearling coats searching for enlightenment in Afghan villages. Clay has created a window into a world that lives in my memories, but not anywhere on the news.

The images must have lulled me to sleep because when I open my eyes, I see that the pink light of dawn has given way to a crowning sun. The book has slipped out of my hands, the open pages splayed across my chest as if my heart might have desired to read them too.

I take a quick shower, wrap a towel around myself, and slip into the bedroom quietly to get my clothes. Mom is awake, sitting on the side of the bed with her feet on the floor.

“Morning, love,” she says, still sounding groggy.

“Sorry if I woke you. Get some more sleep. It’s still early,” I tell her.

She shakes her head, then stands and stretches her arms above her head.

“Didn’t sound like you got much sleep last night,” she says. “I heard your phone ring a couple of times. Everything all right?”

I pull a camisole over my head, then slip my arms into a cardigan.

“It’s a new patient. He’s very anxious,” I say. I could tell her right now. I could tell her everything, and she could make sure I don’t do anything wildly destructive. But I say nothing.

“Are you sure that’s all, Aryana? You just seem a little . . .” She is careful with her words, as if navigating a minefield.

Mom can tell when my head starts spinning in that dangerous direction. I cannot hide from her completely. I step into my closet to finish dressing before I face her.