Elyas turned into the main road and Jia lost sight of her brother. In that moment, she realised that no man, no matter how beloved, would ever take the place of her family. She reached down into her handbag and took out her phone, dialling his number.

Lying in her old bed years later, her face washed clean of the make-up she’d worn for Maria’s wedding earlier that day, Jia could still feel the cold sting of that stormy night against her cheeks. The smell of the wet gravel and the sound of it crunching as the car tyres spun out of control was still fresh in her mind. And then the flash of silver from the opposite side of the road, the shrieking of brakes on the rain-soaked tarmac, followed by glass smashing and the sharp screech of metal cutting through itself: it would never fade from her memory. The smell of burning rubber would never leave her.

The crash had been loud; it must have echoed for miles. Zan’s car turning into the road, the boy racer coming the other way, jumping to the wrong side of the road to overtake a driver who was navigating the precarious driving conditions.

She remembered running and losing her shoes somewhere along the way. She reached the site of the crash before Elyas had even made it out of his car. She saw the BMW Zan had been driving in front of her. It had crumpled like a tin can, the Subaru sandwiched through its centre. Frantically, she’d searched for her brother, screaming his name until her throat was ripped to shreds. The driver of the Subaru was dead; the air bag had failed to open, his crushed head resting against the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, his girlfriend was pressed against the side of the car, whimpering for help, but Jia was not there for her, she was there for Zan. And then she saw him, lying lifeless on the other side of the road.

Through the heavy rain and darkness, Elyas watched Jia cradling Zan in her arms, her face up to the heavens, twisted in agony.

Family trickled out of the gates of Pukhtun House. Stumbling over each other, they washed on to the street.

Sanam Khan was the first to see them, a hand reaching out for her son as she stood in the road, her youngest child clinging to her in fear. She clutched her last-born to her chest and screamed out for her firstborn, the anguish in her voice reaching the other side of the city and piercing the night sky. Maria Khan muffled her cries with one hand at the sight of the mangled car. She grabbed her mother with the other.