Khamis pulled up to the curb in front of Zaid’s house and gave a quick, friendly wave. “Think about what I said, yeah? I’ll call you.”
“I will. Thanks for the ride… and the food,” Zaid replied, getting out. He watched the car drive off before turning to the quiet house.
He let himself in as quietly as he could, expecting to find his mother already busy in the kitchen. But the house was silent. A small frown creased his brow. His mother was always an early riser. Then, he heard it—the soft, melodic murmur of someone reciting Quran. It was coming from his room.
Pushing the door open slowly, his heart swelled at the sight that greeted him. There, sitting in his chair by the window, was his grandmother, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she held a mus-haf.
“Teta!” he breathed, his
