The woman takes the children into the next-door room. One is crying, “I’m hungry, Mummy.” The other complaining, “Why didn’t you get any bananas?” Their mother comforts them: “I’ll give you some bread.”

***

Just as the sun withdraws its rays from the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains, the woman reappears in the doorway to the room. She looks at the man a while, then approaches and checks his breath. He is breathing. The drip bag is almost dry. “The pharmacy was shut,” she says and, looking resigned, waits, as if for further instructions. Nothing. Nothing but breathing. She leaves again and returns with a glass of water. “I’ll have to do what I did last time, and use sugar-salt solution…”

With a quick, practiced movement she pulls the tube out of his arm. Takes off the syringe. Cleans the tube, feeds it into his half-open mouth, and pushes it down until it reaches his esophagus. Then she pours the contents of the glass into the drip bag. Adjusts the flow, checking the gaps between drips. One drip per breath.

And leaves.

A dozen drips later, she is back, chador in hand. “I have to go and see my aunt.” She waits again… for permission, perhaps. Her eyes wander. “I’ve lost my mind!” Agitated, she turns around and leaves the room. Behind the door, her voice comes and goes in the passageway: “I don’t care,” near, “what you think of her…,” far, “I love her,” near, “she’s all I have left… my sisters have abandoned me, and your brothers too…” far, “… that I see her,” near, “I need to…,” far, “… she doesn’t give a damn about you… and neither do I!” She can be heard leaving with her two children.

Their absence lasts three thousand nine hundred and sixty breaths.