“As I’ll ever be.” I sigh, grabbing my bag and locking the door behind me. “If I collapse in the middle of the market, avenge me.”
“I will haggle in your honor,” she promises.
The market is alive and bustling when we step off the bus. It’s loud in all the best ways: vendors shouting at shoppers, children darting between stalls, and a barrage of music crackling from battered radios through the vast space. The air is thick with the mouth-watering scents of cumin and grilled meat.
Zahra moves through the crowd, calling greetings to almost every vendor we pass. She’s been here so long, you’d think she was born here. They all respond with such genuine warmth.That’s Zahra…She brings that out in everyone.
We stop at a stall draped in scarves—silks, cotton, and wool layered in every shade imaginable. Zahra lifts a silky one, deep indigo threaded with gold.
“For you,” she says. “It matches your soul.”
“I have a beige soul.”
She snorts and tosses it at me anyway. I catch it, fingers sinking into the soft material. It smells faintly of incense and sun.
“How much?” Zahra asks the vendor, already squaring her shoulders.
The man eyes us, then names a price that is ridiculous. Zahra doesn’t even blink before scoffing her objection. I wander a few steps away while they begin their ritual combat. Zahra wins, paying a mere fraction of the original asking price before draping it around my neck.
We wander around the market aimlessly until we both have a bundle of purchases under our arms. “Maryam is really going home tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow morning. Vitals are stable. No signs of infection. The baby is doing amazing.”
“And the husband?”
“Not so much as a call since he practically told us to fuck off,” I huff. “So, clearly still an asshole.”
Zahra hums. “Well, that is a chronic condition.”
“I just wish I could do more…” When she grabbed my hand in recovery and squeezed it, I initially thought it was a gesture of gratitude. But then I looked into her eyes. They were so full of fear that my heart immediately ached for her.
We stop at a fruit stand piled high with glistening pomegranates. Zahra picks one up and weighs it in her hand. “How’s Durand treating you?” she asks casually.
I laugh a sharp cackle. “He hasn’t said a word to me since before her surgery.”
“Really?”
“I’m pretty much walking on eggshells, waiting to get dismissed from my contract at this point.”
“You denied an order,” Zahra rebuts, unapologetically. “You treated a woman as a human being. The horror.”
“And she lived.”
Zahra tosses a date into the air and catches it. “Fuck the patriarchy.”
I grin, echoing her, “Fuck the patriarchy.”
We find a street food stand tucked between two buildings, smoke curling into the air, the scent of frying oil and spices making my stomach growl. We order without much discussion—falafel, grilled eggplant, and something I can only describe as street meat in fry-bread.
We sit on low stools, knees nearly touching, balancing food on our laps as we eat. “Okay,” I say eventually, wiping my hands. “No more work talk.”
Zahra arches an eyebrow. “Boy talk?”
I choke on my water. “Considering the only men I’ve had significant conversations with since coming here are Dr. Durand—who hates me, just ew—and Dr. Klein, who is old enough to be my grandfather, it’s going to be a really short chat.”
“Dr. Klein has nice, strong hands,” Zahra says thoughtfully.
“I’m going to pretend you don’t even remotely mean that in a sexual way.”
