“Wait,” she said. She ran to the patio, threw open the door.

The light outside was harsh. She blinked to adjust her vision. She’d almost forgotten what daylight looked like after three days of darkness. She squatted next to the money plant pot, plunged her hands into it, where three days earlier, she’d hidden the poem and Madam Grover’s money. She wiped off the excess soil, rushed back inside.

“This is from Madam Grover,” she said, handing it to him. “When she found out you were leaving, she wanted me to give it to you. It’ll help your family. Please take it.”

He peered inside. “I can’t accept this,” he said. “It’s too much.”

“Don’t be proud, Amir,” she said, with the authority of a wife. “You can use this to purchase your ticket back to Delhi, back to me.”

He slid it in his pocket. “That’s very kind of her. Please tell her I said thank you.”

“You can tell her yourself, when you return to Delhi.”

He took her face in his hands, kissed her. “I will, my sweet. I will tell her myself, after I come back for you.” He brought her to his chest. “Stay safe until I return.”

“I will,” she said.

He slipped on his shoes, brought his hand to the doorknob, looked back at her.

She tried to absorb every detail of him, to preserve his image in her mind, his soft eyes, the birthmark on the side of his face, his lips made redder from pressing against hers, the slight chip on his front tooth. It was if she was seeing him for the very first time.

He opened the door, hesitated, as if taking the first step out in the street would break the spell of them, of their union, would usher, too abruptly, the present to the past, begin, too quickly, the tenure of their separation. She knew he was thinking these things. She knew him as only a wife could.

He moved away from her, into another, more cruel world, and like the blinding flash of a camera, disappeared.

CHAPTER SIX

Deepa propped herself against the wall, knees bent, arms folded. Her chin rested in the crook of her elbow. A black ant near her feet stumbled along the living room floor, mounted the lip of a small rug, circumvented a folded newspaper. She gripped the newspaper between her toes, slid it over the ant, squashed it with her heel.

Nora stood above her, jaw clenched. She wore an ivory blouse with a stiff collar, a gray skirt that ended mid-calf. The narrow circumference of her skirt limited the length of her gait. She shuffled in short, awkward steps, like a baby learning how to walk for the first time, not the easy, languid pace that her usual salwar pants allowed.