In Rania’s studio, an empty canvas waited by the window, taunting her. Reluctantly, she inspected the photo in her hands. There was the president—in jodhpurs, riding boots, and a tan jacket. He carried a hunting rifle under his elbow. The gun’s walnut stock gleamed in the sunlight. He was gazing across Lake Habbaniyah, where fat cattails fringed a sweep of muddy shore. In fields all around, yarrow bloomed among thorny manna trees. The president’s face was tilted to the sky, tracking a neat arrowhead of ducks. Uday lurked behind him, smirking.

Rania tried to swallow her revulsion and homed in on the flat-topped blooms of yarrow. Somewhere in her paint box lay half a tube of cadmium lemon. That shade would match. The doorbell buzzed. Rania put down the photo and hurried out to the hall.

“Mom?” Hanan wedged open the kitchen door. “Are you expecting visitors?”

“I’ll see who it is,” said Rania. “Now, be a good girl, and go up to your bedroom.”

Hanan opened her mouth, as if she was going to argue. Rania planted herself in the middle of the hallway and pointed to the stairs. Hanan sighed and slunk away, but Rania knew she couldn’t keep her hidden away forever.

She hurried down the hall, worried that she’d find Malik at the gate. Had he come to inspect progress on the presidential portrait? Or to once again put his hands on Hanan’s picture, as if she was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap? Rania pried open the hall closet and checked that her husband’s old pistol was still concealed under the scarves. The bell sounded again.

Outside, Rania peered through the gap in the gate. It wasn’t Malik on the sidewalk.

“What are you doing here, Huda?” she hissed. “I thought our business was done.”

“I heard the news about your mother,” said Huda, clutching a sack of tea to her chest like a pitiful bouquet.

Rania was suddenly struck by a memory of Huda’s grandmother pouring glasses of fragrant numi basra as she dispensed advice in the women’s quarters of the farmhouse. Rania wanted nothing more than to go back to that time, to when she and Huda would sneak away, lie in the long grass, and dream of the future.

“I’m sorry.” Huda turned away. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ll leave you in peace.”

Rania hesitated, then unlatched the gate.

“Come in,” she said.

The two women followed the stepping-stones to the garden and settled at a picnic bench in the shade. A crow kept watch, marching back and forth in the pale-limbed eucalypt. Silence gathered about them.

“I wanted to stop by earlier, but I was very busy at work, then of course there was the election. . . .” Huda trailed off and slid her pack of Marlboro Lights across the table. “I hope you managed to find enough time to vote.”