A long silence. Almost five prayer-bead cycles. Five cycles during which the woman remains huddled against the wall, her eyes closed. It is the call to midday prayer that snatches her from her daze. She picks up the little rug, unfolds it, and lays it out on the ground. Makes a start on the prayer.

The prayer complete, she remains sitting on the rug to listen to the mullah preach the hadith for that day of the week: “… and today is a day of blood, for it was on a Tuesday that Eve, for the first time, lost tainted blood, that one of the sons of Adam killed his brother, that Gregory, Zachary, and Yahya-may peace be upon them-were killed, as well as Pharaoh’s counselors, his wife Asiya Bint Muzahim, and the heifer of the Children of Israel…”

She looks around slowly. The room. Her man. This body in the emptiness. This empty body.

Her eyes fill with dread. She stands up, refolds the rug, puts it back in its place in the corner of the room, and leaves.

A few moments later, she returns to check the level of solution in the drip bag. There isn’t much left. She stares at the tube, noting the intervals between the drips. They are short, shorter than the intervals between the man’s breaths. She adjusts the flow, waits two drips, and turns around decisively. “I’m going to the pharmacy for more solution.” But before her feet cross the threshold, they falter and she lets out a plaintive sigh: “I hope they’ve managed to get hold of some…” She leaves the room. We hear her waking the children, “Come on, we’re going out,” and departing, followed by little footsteps running down the passage, through the courtyard…

After three cycles of the prayer beads-two hundred and ninety-seven breaths-they are back.