“There are lots of dangerous men there,” he said to Farah, as if flaunting his bravery for having survived it.

“You think that’s bad,” said the man in the front seat. “My brother owns a liquor store and he was shot during a robbery one day. Now he is paralyzed.”

There were quiet murmurs from everyone in the car, and Farah felt tired and irritated at having to be reminded of all the tragedies in her life, unable to shake the image of her father, who though not paralyzed could not move around on his own, his body shaking constantly. She had to feed and bathe him while he tripped over phrases like “you will marry again.” Over and over the words came from his quivering parched lips, “You will marry again,” sometimes clutching at her with hands that felt like claws and made her flinch, even though this was her father and the only man she had ever loved in her life. She washed his withered body every day, even shaved him, determined to preserve his dignity, even if it meant cleaning places a daughter should never see. Her mother certainly couldn’t do the job—she couldn’t do much on her own either and Farah felt a pang in her heart as she remembered the day her mother had dipped a piece of steaming bread into dish soap, thinking it was olive oil. All too much to bear. And now all of this coming back because of this man’s words, as though he were trying to race his tragedy with hers.

Don’t you know grief is quiet, she wanted to say, but he just kept talking.

“His wife was found to have a cancerous brain tumor and died at the age of twenty-six, leaving him paralyzed with four children to take care of.”

More murmurs.

“May God give you strength to deal with these hardships,” said the driver in a strong voice.

Farah found herself willing the man to be quiet, willing everyone to be quiet and vaguely wondering what the other man in the front seat was keeping tucked inside, what sad story he was being forced to remember. We have all had our tragedies, she wanted to say. Don’t remind us and don’t show us that your tragedies are worse. In front of God we are all equal.

She kept silent and looked out the window, wondering if her own young son was better, wondering if her parents would recognize her, if her husband had found any extra work. She said nothing, just tucked those thoughts back behind her right breast and slept, her head bouncing against the window.