Free A House Without Windows by Nadia Hashimi Page B

had prophesied . But by then it might be too late.
    Zeba wondered what to tell the judge. When she closed her eyes, the events of that day came slowly into focus, like the flutter of a television on an overcast day.
    ZEBA HEARD THE GUARD CALL THAT DINNER WAS READY. DOWN the hall, a heavyset woman in her fifties doled out steaming, cumin-infused rice with stewed potatoes. One woman from each cell would bring back a platter of rice and stew for the cellmates to share. The cellmates sat around a pale yellow tablecloth spread on the floor and mouthed morsels of rice and potatoes from their pinched fingers. Zeba joined them, keeping her somber eyes to herself and wishing she could have fed her own children this well. The women shook their heads but didn’t let the presence of their mute cellmate dampen their conversation. They smiled through greasy lips and nodded at stories they’d heard over and over again.
    By her second week, Zeba felt sick wondering what Basir thoughtof her. Her arms ached just thinking of her daughters and the way they had buried their faces against her in the moments before the neighborhood had barged into their home. Day and night, she slept with her face to the wall.
    Her cellmates thought her stuck-up.
    We’re all here for some reason or another, guilty or not. Why not just tell us what you did?
    Are you too good to talk to us?
    Maybe she’s lost her mind.
    Come on, if you’re going to be living with us for the next God knows how many years, we want to know who you are!
    No one in this prison knew Zeba. They knew nothing about her husband or her distraught children. She was miles from home, miles from her village, and thankful for the anonymity. She would meet with the judge in the next week or two, she’d been told. She’d not yet breathed a word about that day’s bloody events, the hatchet found in her husband’s head, or the trail of footprints leaving their home.

CHAPTER 8
    YUSUF SQUINTED HIS EYES, THE HEADLIGHTS OF ONCOMING cars bright in the evening light. A man on a bicycle chimed his handlebar bell. Yusuf stepped to the side to avoid his foot being run over by the cart the bicyclist pulled behind him. He had missed this, though it was remarkably similar to the noise and chaos of the Chinese, Indian, and Afghan neighborhoods of Queens. Had there been an elevated subway train roaring overhead, Yusuf might have felt that he was only a few blocks from home.
    He’d spent the day revisiting the city he’d grown up in and trying not to look like a tourist. But between the bottle of water and the iPhone he pulled out to snap photos of the gardens, the monuments, or the dry riverbed, he had little chance of blending into the local crowd.
    Another neighborhood, another band of boys in the street.
    Kaka, Kaka, a boy had called out. Uncle, take my picture! He’d folded his arm across his chest and smiled broadly, revealing two missing teeth. Another child in a baseball cap followed his friend’s lead, cocking his head to the side and winking.
    He’d taken their photographs and, to their delight, showed the images to them.
    You’ll take these back to America and show everyone, won’t you?
    Yusuf had laughed, promising to do just that.
    Movie stars! That’s what they’ll say about us Kabul boys.
    He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d purchased and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was his mother.
    â€œYou weren’t sleeping, were you?”
    â€œNo, Madar- jan . It’s still early in the evening. Is everything all right?”
    â€œYes, yes. Listen, your Khala Zainab called me just a few moments ago and told me she was so happy to see you. She thanked me for the gifts and said you were so polite and wonderful and . . . well, she praised you so much I didn’t know what to say.”
    â€œThat was nice of her. It was good to see them,” Yusuf said.
    â€œDo you have a pen and