The children heeded their father’s warnings and eyed me from a generous distance. After the first couple of days, even Tahera seemed to set up a perimeter. The one time I’d called out to my mother in a half-asleep state, I’d woken to find Tahera inching backward, as if afraid the word Madar would settle on her like cigarette smoke on a wool vest.

“Shair, you must be honest with me,” she’d whispered to her husband late that night when the children had gone to bed. I could make out their figures in the kitchen, where a single candle glowed. “What will happen to us if this girl is found in our home?”

Shair rose to his feet. He opened a cabinet and reached between the jars of sugar and corn flour. He withdrew the revolver, turned it over in his palm, and tucked it into his waistband.

“Let’s hope we never find out.”

Chapter 9

I woke to the sound of shouting. The soldier’s lanky son stood on the far end of the living room, pointing a finger at me. He called for his mother, his face pinched with revulsion. I looked down and saw a red stain on the cushion where I’d been sleeping. I felt a wetness between my legs.

“What have you done?” I shouted, rising to my feet. I retreated and pressed my back against the wall, certain that I had been stabbed in my sleep.

“Hush! No one has done anything to you,” Tahera said wearily. She lowered her voice. “You are no longer a child. Women bleed every month. It is a sickness we must bear.”

She handed me a rag and underwear, then closed the bathroom door. She did not tell me where the blood came from or why.

Shair’s son kept his distance from me after that day, looking at me like I was a stray dog who’d brought fleas into their home. But his eyes lingered on me while I ate, when I closed my eyes, and when I asked for permission to use the bathroom. I hid my face most of the time, feeling awash with a shame I didn’t know was possible.

Day after day, Shair’s daughter emerged from the bedroom wearing clothes I recognized—an orange corduroy skirt, a striped top, denim pants. I seethed to recall how carefully my mother had tied the bundle for Shair to take home.

“Did you do something terrible?” she asked me one day, her voice a whisper. “Why is my father punishing you?”

“Because he’s a monster!” I shouted, unable to stomach her looking down at me while wearing the clothes I’d just recently outgrown. She stayed far away from me after that.