Amir places it, along with the other papers, back into the envelope. He props it up against the candle. He then opens his knapsack, removes several dozen folded hearts and encircles them around her sleeping body—a halo around her head, a carpet at her feet. He extinguishes the candle’s flame.

He rouses when the adults finally retire to bed. On the other side of the wall, his mother releases a few muffled cries. His father offers a hush. Amir places his palm against the grainy surface separating them, as if to comfort them through the concrete. They hate it here in Lahore. Delhi has always been their home.

He hopes, someday soon, that Ammi, Abba, and Laila will be able to forgive him. That they will still accept him as their son, even though he is abandoning them when they need him most, even though he is marrying a Hindu girl. He will work hard to send back money to them so that they can find their own place to live in Lahore.

He pushes himself to standing, picks up his knapsack from the corner of the room, runs his fingers through his hair. He opens the bedroom door slightly, peers out. Remnants of smoke from incense sticks migrate toward the ceiling. A cricket hops along the floor. His family’s chappals mingle with those belonging to his aunt and uncle’s. Amir slips on his pair.

Outside, the air is thick with a smog that coats him like a second skin. A sleeping dog startles at his appearance. Amir freezes. Its bark will call attention to his escape. The dog thinks better of it, stretches, makes its way farther down the road.

Amir sighs.

His vision takes its time adjusting to the darkness. He lifts the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, rubs his face in the crook of his elbow. His feet kick up clouds of dust. He retraces his steps back toward the train station where his family arrived three weeks earlier.

A faint glow begins to penetrate the darkness. A crowing rooster signifies the imminence of dawn. He begins a slow jog. If he doesn’t catch the first train out, his family will have time to read the notes, to search for him at the railway station. He imagines his mother’s shock at his absence, her wails, his letter falling from her hands.

He stops, glances back down the road toward his aunt’s house, wonders if there will ever be a world in which he can have both his family and his wife. He doesn’t want to choose one or the other. But for now, he must choose his wife.

The tattered brown roof of the station comes into view. Rows of men, women, and children slumber in heaps along the edge of the street. Babies bury themselves in their parents’ sides. Piles of bags, tin containers, encircle their feet. A faint fire burns itself out.