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and saw the tent, like a shard of bone in the night, the plastic chairs slick and shining, huddled together on the black grass like stranded crows.
     
     
    The sound of the rain was soothing, like a gentle tabla on the canvas. Mirza had climbed into a sleeping bag that he had found in the attic, a leftover from an ill-fated camping trip to France. The rubber mat beneath him was dry and comfortable, traversed by the occasional ant that had sought shelter with him. “I will soon have ants in the pants,” he thought to himself, and as he chuckled out loud, he enjoyed the sound of his voice booming in the hollowness.
    There was a square cardboard box along one canvas wall, holding a neat row of books and a torch. He took out the torch now, and flicked the switch on and surveyed his new home, slowly, methodically. He saw the drops of water shining as they fell from the entrance flaps, studied the grain of the wooden planks, the shadows made by grass blades peeking up around the rubber mat.
    The boy would come back, thought Mirza, as he switched off the torch and shimmied his heavy frame further into the sleeping bag. Like Amal, he pondered, and he felt a pang of guilt at the fact that he had brought her into this, making her take care of him like a spoiled child. He pushed his toes against the bottom of the sleeping bag and the cloth’s resistance felt comforting. He thought of his niece’s quiet presence in the house and as his eyes closed he had the sensation of falling, arms outstretched, the wind rushing past his ears. There was a face, too, that appeared for a moment in the space between consciousness and dreams, but he was asleep before he realized whom she was.
     
     
    After a week, the Council sent a man round to see if the tent was a permanent fixture in the back garden. Mirza was offended when he shook the wooden planks to determine how easy they would be to uproot and dismantle and declared that it was a temporary residence, and therefore permissible.
    “Bloody fool doesn’t know good workmanship if it hit him in the nose with a spirit level,” he fumed, “This could be a bomb shelter this. Solid,” he said to Amal and Rehan, who were holding up their teacups in agreement. “Solid.”
    “It’s OK, man,” said Rehan. “The boys will take a look at it after the seminar. Have you got enough chairs in the garage? Where’re they going to sit?” Rehan had persuaded some friends from Mirza’s architecture course to come over for a seminar that afternoon. “He needs to keep teaching,” he had told Amal a few days ago when he was alone with her in the kitchen, “He’s never going to come back to his job otherwise, and then where’ll he be? Pitching his tent in some alley then.” Amal had winced at his directness but agreed.
    “I think we have one more chair, but that’s it,” she said now, taking his teacup and putting it on the tray where it lay on the grass. “Any suggestions?”
    He shrugged. “We’re going to do this again,” he said, glancing at Mirza, “so nothing we have to keep dragging in and out. No nice house furniture, that’ll get ruined.” Mirza nodded approvingly. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.” They walked to the garage to take a look. Rehan pulled out an overstuffed suitcase and used the corner of his shirt to wipe off the dust. Amal saw a flat triangle of his stomach and looked away.
    “Really?” she asked, when he had finished. “You think so?”
    “They’re not going to sit on the top of it, we’ll put it on its side.” He unzipped the suitcase, his hand diving into tightly packed swirls of bright fabric. “Nothing breakable, I think.” He found a small chest and a plastic storage tub without a lid. She found some dishcloths in the kitc hen, but when she came back, the front of his t-shirt was already blackened with years of dirt.
    “Why are you doing this? You don’t have to be here. You’re not his family.” She said this gently, but regretted it