She circled the base of the buffalo horn over the candle flame, then, when the bone was warm, she pressed it between Mustafa’s shoulder blades. His skin was already so hot, Huda was surprised it didn’t sizzle. She stroked Mustafa’s sweat-sodden hair, while her grandmother rocked back and forth, whispering prayers. Every time Mustafa moaned, pain twisted in Huda’s side. He’d always seemed so invincible. But when she pressed her fingers to his wrist, she felt only a thin quivering thread, easily unspooled, or sliced in two.

She closed her eyes and promised God she wouldn’t complain when Mustafa teased her. She wouldn’t sulk when he forbade her from joining him and Ali on their hunting trips. I’ll be good, she pleaded silently, just let Mustafa live.

Grandmother pried the bone from the base of Mustafa’s neck, revealing a dome of pink flesh. Suddenly, a slender knife glittered in her wrinkled hand.

“Don’t hurt him,” blurted Huda.

“Shush, girl,” growled Grandmother. She pressed the point of the blade into the pink dome at Mustafa’s neck. A dozen times she pierced his burning skin. Huda tightened her grip on her brother’s hand, as the network of tiny incisions wept clear fluid, not blood. Grandmother repeated the process ten times, covering Mustafa’s back with weeping pink domes. When she was done, she shuffled outside to comfort Mama, who was anxiously grinding a mountain of turmeric and cumin seed.

Huda remained, crouched by her brother, their shadows shimmying beneath the yellow candle flame. She whispered the same prayers Grandmother had set in motion, holy words and curlicues of smoke rising to the ceiling. Within an hour, the mounds on Mustafa’s back subsided. An hour later, his fever broke too. Only then did Huda allow a tear to crawl down her cheek.

A month later, as she cast her bag of talismans across the silty riverbank, Huda found herself once again holding back tears. Ever since Mustafa’s illness, she’d felt the need to keep those precious to her close: her two brothers, Mama, Grandmother, and Rania too. As she searched the scattered bones and shells for signs of faraway places and distant journeys, she wondered, How long would it be before Rania left for good? How far could their bond stretch? Did their blood oath still bind them? Or was it more like that skipping thread at Mustafa’s wrist, capable of snapping with a sharp tug?

Rania raised her amber eyes from the runes.

“I heard that Mustafa has been ill.” She rested her hand on Huda’s shoulder. “I heard you stayed by his side for a week.”

Huda blinked in surprise. And relief. Rania had been keeping track of her too.