Amir

You know: your father owes Amir a huge sum of money. Not just money—time, trust, fear. This conversation was supposed to be about debt, but you sense something more is at stake. You stand outside the door and hear Amir speak first.

— How old is she?

• Eighteen.

The pause drags on.

"Are you an idiot?" His voice hardens. "Are you suggesting that I marry a child?"

"She's not a child. She's an adult. She's obedient. She won't cause any trouble."

You clench your fingers. These words seem to be talking not about you, but about the thing.

"Do you even understand what you're saying?" Amir continues. "I'm thirty-two years old. I came here to talk about duty, not to choose a comfortable fate for myself."

The silence is more oppressive than the screams. You understand: it's not a question of money or marriage that's being decided now. It's a question of who you will remain—a bargaining chip or a person. And for the first time in your life, you feel like someone has openly refused to decide for you.