The hurricane lamp breathes its final breaths in vain. The flame goes out. The woman returns. She is filled with a deep weariness-of her being, and her body. After a few listless steps toward her man, she stops. Less decisive than the previous day. Her gaze lingers desperately on the motionless body. She sits down between the man and the Koran, which she opens at the flyleaf. She moves her finger over the names of God, one by one. Counts them. Stops at the seventeenth name. Murmurs “Al-Wahhab, the Bestower.” A bitter smile puckers the edges of her lips. “I don’t need a gift.” She pulls at the peacock feather peeking out of the Koran. “I haven’t the heart to go on reciting the names of God.” She strokes her lips with the feather. “Praise be to God… He will save you. Without me. Without my prayers… He’s got to.”

The woman is silenced by a knocking at the door. “It must be the mullah.” She hasn’t the slightest desire to open. More knocking. She hesitates. The knocking continues. She leaves the room. Her footsteps can be heard moving toward the road. She is talking to someone. Her words are lost in the courtyard, behind the windows.

A hand timidly pushes open the door to the room. One of the little girls comes in. A sweet face beneath a mop of unruly hair. She is slender. Her little eyes stare at the man. “Daddy!” she cries, and shyly walks closer. “Are you sleeping, Daddy?” she asks. “What’s that in your mouth?” pointing at the drip tube. She stops near her father, unsure whether to touch his cheek. “But you’re not sleeping!” she cries. “Why does Mummy always say you’re sleeping? Mummy says you’re sick.