A girl, about seventeen, is not quite hidden in the shadows of an oleander tree. Her face is damp with tears. The area is deserted of all other humans, but we’re sure there are a few middle worlders here. A place this thick with magic would not be overlooked by them. We look to Paheli; do we listen to this girl’s story or do we keep moving? The world is full of crying girls, and though we try, we cannot listen to all of them.

Paheli steps forward and at her signal, we shimmer into visibility. She clears her throat. The girl looks up, sees us, and opens her mouth as if her first instinct is to scream. We tend to evoke that reaction in people. In the end, she contains herself and looks at us with wide eyes as if not understanding how we came upon her so suddenly.

“Who are you?” she whispers in Arabic.

“That is not yet important,” Paheli responds in kind. “Why are you crying?”

At the reminder, the girl’s eyes fill with tears again. Angrily, she wipes them away. “What does it matter to you if I cry?”

“Why shouldn’t it matter to us?” Ligaya demands hotly. “Wouldn’t you ask someone who is crying why they are grieved?”

“Is it so odd that we might be moved to offer you aid?” Etsuko asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Why would you help me?” the girl spits out. “Even my family has no time for me. Why would strangers care?”

“Because we can,” Paheli replies. “You are, of course, welcome to reject our help. If you do not wish us to intrude upon your pain, we will leave now.” We turn to go.

“Wait!” the girl calls out. We knew she would. “Don’t laugh, okay?” She tries to glare at us, but the tears in her eyes ruin the effect. “I have a dream. It’s not a particularly impressive one, but it’s mine.” Her voice slips into a whisper. “I’m good at studying. My grades are excellent. I was at the top of the school the last exam, and my teachers say I will easily get into a top university in Beirut, but my father, he insists on sending my brother to university instead. My brother, who spends his time hanging out with his friends, playing pool instead of attending school. Him.” She laughs bitterly. “We only have enough money for one of us to go, and it should obviously be me, but my father, he says that a girl is like spilled milk when married, so he sees no point in investing in me. And my mother, who should understand me best, says that if I win in this, I will start wanting other things. Why is it so wrong to want things? Why is it so wrong to win in things?” She looks at us. “Is it because I’m a girl?”