Shoving it in with the mail pile, I go downstairs to the basement. What I put in the dryer is gone. But our own laundry is tossed out, Kamal’s bright-blue-checkered sheet stretched out on the floor, and his underwear, jeans, and socks scattered. Cursing, I mash it into a soggy pile, carry it back upstairs, and drape everything on the fire escape and the small line Ammi uses. From here, I can see into Mrs. Flannery’s narrow window. She is sitting at her table, eating a bowl of soup. At some point, she raises her head and looks up. Her eyes meet mine. I stare back at her, my insides quivering, and touch the photo in my pocket.

Chapter Five

“Wait for me.”

That’s what Abu whispered as he pushed the mosquito netting aside. I pretended to be asleep, scrunched tight in a ball, the way I liked to do, arms wrapped around my knees.

“Rania, I promise. I’ll be back soon. And then we will take our trip to America.”

I peeked my eyes open; my mother hovered in the doorway. She was so slender, like a girl, with her narrow hips, arms across her thin chest. I could see them, two silhouettes melting in and out as they said their goodbyes.

Years later when I saw the movie The Incredibles, I was sure that was who we were, a family able to stretch and jump and squeeze around any obstacle. We moved around a lot because Abu worked for different newspapers. First Lahore, then Islamabad and Karachi, my favorite, because it smelled like the sea. Later we moved to Hyderabad, and back again to Lahore. Ammi got good at setting up our flats: the plants she would line on the sill; my favorite food she knew how to cook—aloo parathas steaming off the kathi pan. Or toast and her strained yogurt and slices of papaya—she taught me how to pick the right one, squeeze the heavy, wide part to make sure it was firm and look for speckles of brown.

I knew Abu was always going off to do something dangerous—how many times had I watched him buckle his leather bag, push a cigarette pack into his pocket, and slip away, at funny hours? But he always came back. He’d sit at the table, stubbing out cigarette after cigarette, regaling us with his stories of the policeman he’d bribed to get someone to talk, or the army man who gave him a tip off the record. He’d tell me about the cars with tinted windows that followed his, or the time he walked out of his office to find his tires slashed. Ammi would smile, but it was a tired smile. She’d empty the ashtray, set down more chai, and say, “Don’t frighten her, Naved. She doesn’t have to know everything.”