“Origami,” Amir said. “Japanese paper folding. A friend taught me how to do it. This one’s a gondola. Do you know what that is?”

A painting of a gondola floating through the canals of Venice hung above her parents’ bed at home. Its gondolier paddled a young couple through the shallow waters of the Grand Canal. The woman, mid-laugh, wore a dress with lace and ribbons. She held an umbrella over her head, gazed lovingly at the man across from her. When Deepa was younger, she wrote a story about the couple: a prince and princess who’d snuck out of the castle to escape the confines of royalty in search of a land where they could simply live together, as husband and wife, nothing more, nothing less.

“My parents have a painting of one in our flat. But I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said. This paper gondola was sturdy. She peeked underneath one flap, imagined his fingers pressing and creasing it. “Did you use glue?”

He leaned in. His shadow cast over the boat. “See, here?” He pointed to the bow with his long, thin fingers. “The folds interlock to maintain its form.”

She felt his stare gravitate higher, toward her face. She ran her tongue over her front teeth hoping to clear them of any food trapped from lunch. She hoped her breath didn’t stink.

“May I have the boat back, please?” Laila said, rocking her body from side to side.

“Oh, certainly, Laila.” Deepa had forgotten the child was with them. They had an audience of one, a precocious one at that. She handed it back. “It’s really quite wonderful.”

Laila tugged her brother’s arm. “Amir, can you make one for Deepa too?”

“I’d be happy to. I can make you whatever you want, Deepa. How about a flower? Or a bird?”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” she said, though she instantly regretted saying it. She would give anything to have something Amir made with his own hands. “Actually, I would love a gondola. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” he said.

She shielded her eyes, searched the street. Sri, with his white mustache, his long beard, stood on the pedals of the cycle and waved.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Don’t you walk home like us?” Laila asked.

“I would walk if I were going directly home. But I go to my parents’ medical clinic after school, so I take a rickshaw. Our home isn’t far from here, though. Do you know Bassant Street?”

“Oh, yes. That’s right around the corner from the market,” Amir said. “I walk down Bassant all the time.”

“We’re the first bungalow on the northernmost side of the road,” she said. “Our patio is filled with my father’s plants. They’re growing so quickly now, I have to prune them at least once a week.”