Three

Spring 1949

Parwana smells it before she pulls back the quilt and sees it. It has smeared

all over Masooma’s

buttocks, down her thighs, against the sheets and the mattress and the quilt

too. Masooma

looks up at her over her shoulder with a timid plea for forgiveness, and

shame—still the shame

after all this time, all these years.

“I’m sorry,” Masooma whispers.