I did not give up. One millimeter at a time, I pulled the book to the lip of the shelf and ducked when it tumbled onto my head. Photographs slipped out of the plastic sheaths and spilled out onto the floor. I scrambled to gather them. Even as my fingers worked, I caught glimpses of my parents’ faces, of my brother’s dewy eyes, and felt a knot grow in my throat. I would have sat down and had a storm of a cry then were it not for the voices I heard.

There was no mistaking their proximity this time, though I couldn’t tell where they were coming from or where they were going. I scrambled to grab a handful of photos and collect the bag I’d brought.

The front gate was a trap, given the soldier stationed there. I had to leave through Ashraf’s yard again, but there was no coop for me to climb on our side of the yard. Escaping meant following in my father’s footsteps the night he’d chased a burglar from our home. In a flash, I was on the balcony, pushing off the railings and planting my elbows on the flat roof. I hoisted myself up, one knee at a time, panting so loudly that I expected the neighborhood lights to turn on.

Hunched, I crept across the roof toward Ashraf’s home next door. Ashraf’s voice boomed from below. Had he heard my footsteps? Or had my weight sent plaster flakes scattering from their ceiling onto their heads? I crept along the perimeter of the house to reach the far end.

I dangled myself from the edge, palms sweaty. I landed with a thud on the balls of my feet and one outstretched wrist. The pain moved from bone to bone, firing across my rib cage.

Had Ashraf’s wife looked outside, surely she would have thought a corpse had dropped from the sky. But she’d not noticed, and after a few moments I pulled myself to stand. My legs wobbled slightly. I steeled myself behind the walnut tree before stepping back into the street.

The soldier cleared his throat. I prepared to run. As I walked past him I realized he was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. He did not stir.

I walked back toward the apartment with the same measured pace, keeping my eyes on the ground. I was a mere two streets away from Chicken Street when a police officer stopped me.

“Hey, little girl,” he called out. I pretended not to hear, but he called out again, quickening his step to catch up to me. I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Are you deaf?”

“I’m so sorry,” I replied, my voice sounding shrill to my own ear. The photographs bulged conspicuously in the back pocket of my pants. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. “I must not have been paying attention.”