51
In the shabby gray apartment that morning, Maqued glanced around. Dust caked the tops of the few creaky cabinets in the kitchen. The ancient linoleum was worn through in spots, exposing plywood hiding below. It was quiet, and only the hum of the murmuring refrigerator was audible. He placed the mat down at his feet facing east. His father gave him the mat when he was seven years old. Memories of his father only came in flashes, like the flickering of an old newsreel. Just spurts of a hint of a man—the feel of his rustling beard against Maqued’s face, the faint little whistle his nose made when he breathed, the jingle of coins in his pocket, and the wafting smell of incense.
Maqued grinned at the thought of his father. It was 5:05 a.m. He dropped to his knees and went facedown, praying
