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“For a moment, Layla glanced at Amar's journals, but she could barely make sense of his handwriting. Each deciphered sentence threatened to unravel her understanding of him and carried with it the threat of more secrets. It did not matter that she was his mother. What she could ever hope to know of him was just a glimpse -- like the beam of a lighthouse skipping out, only one stretch of waves visible at a time, the rest left in the unknowable dark.”

“Maybe what a son evoked in a father was different than what a daughter evoked? It would be all right. She was only afraid that when time passed, it would not be these trips to the library he would remember, or his eagerness to learn how she made roti in the kitchen with him as her helper, but how upset he would become when Rafiq scolded him.”

“Listen to me." Baba held on to his arm. "You could never be more wrong, Amar. We taught you one way, but there could be others. We don't even know, even we can only hope. How many names are there for God?" "Ninety-nine." He knew all of this by heart. Didn't that count for something? "And are they all the same kind of name?" "No." "Some contradict each other, remember? Didn't you just say to me--what if this is meant to show us more? What if we are meant to look closer?" Amar nodded. Wind rustled the leaves. He sniffled and wipes his nose on his shirtsleeve. "We will wait until you are allowed in," Baba said, as if to himself. " *I* will wait.”