"Can you please ask him to hurry up? My camel here is hungry," she asked the
watchman.
The watchman looked at her and said, "But you could go home. You don't have to
wait for him."
"I'm not going to leave unless he comes with me," the old woman said stubbornly.
She hooked her camel to a pole and sank herself into the wobbling sands beneath her
feet. The heat pricked her eyes, and sweat beads formed on her eyebrows, but her lips
were aggressive. They did not take back what came out of them.
Inside the publication house, her husband busied himself with the last chapter of his
novel. The due date was tomorrow, and he had already used up all the money the
publishers had given him. He had come up with more excuses than the blouse he had
thought of. So this time, it was his last chance to prove that he was still worthy of
acclaim. It was his second novel, and the only reason he bought himself so much time
for this one was the fact that his first had been a bestseller.
But the reason he was writing in the first place was for the sanity of his wife.
Outside, the wife talked to the shadow. When the watchman looked again, he saw her
patting something on its back—something invisible. She addressed it as though it
were a pet, a pet that only existed in her mind.