Taraana looks dubiously at the bags of clothes we hand him and turns to Paheli for help. She pops a spoonful of peanut butter into her mouth and turns her nose up at him. He sighs softly and gets up, resigned to the fashion show we beseech him to do. We settle in a parlor by a dining room on the second floor and wait for him to grace us with his presence.

A few minutes later, he comes into the room wearing the light green shirt Daraja lobbied for. He pairs it with sleek white dress pants, and the effect is dazzling. We roar to show our approval, but it is Paheli he looks to. Our Paheli is heartless, however, and refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But even she cannot hide her pleasure when some outfits later, he comes back wearing an overlarge sweater in soft gold paired with tailored black pants that mold to his shape. Widad guessed his size perfectly.

Taraana carefully smooths his hands down the soft wool of the sweater and smiles. We swoon. Paheli clears her throat noisily.

“I am hungry. Did you bring food?”

“You were just eating,” Valentina points out reasonably.

“That’s not food,” Taraana says disdainfully.

“Don’t you start again,” Paheli warns, shaking her spoon at him. He looks away with a sniff.

“We bought food,” Ligaya says in a peaceful tone, signaling our move to the dining room beside the parlor. We left the packets and containers of hot food on the table, awaiting our attention. We transfer the food from the containers to the pretty china and elegant utensils we bought for everyday use before we claim chairs and plates around the table.

The table strains under the weight of dishes containing jambalaya, shrimp étouffée, gumbo for those who don’t mind okra, muffuletta from Central Grocery, and, as an alternative, po’boys. For dessert, there are sugar-sprinkled beignets and coffee that will ensure we do not sleep until the wee hours of the morning. The conversation at the table is light; we prefer to concentrate on the intense flavors of the food.

Afterward, we clean up the dining room, take showers, and rest for a few hours. When the clock strikes eight, we gather in a different parlor, this one on the third floor. Outside it is dark and a soft rain is falling. The warm light in the parlor, the colorful cushions on the soft chairs, and the braided rug provide a backdrop for the conversation we will eventually have.

Outside these walls, our fate has become nebulous, and our survival subject to the strength of an enemy we are barely acquainted with. Within these walls, however, we are safe. At this moment, we are safe. Though this safety might be an illusion, it is one we will cling to. What is life if we cannot lie to ourselves?