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more upstairs, in different colors! True, the last time she had come to Lahore—on a family trip when she was four—her grandmother had spoiled her, dressing her like a princess in a new outfit every four hours. But her grandmother had died when she was five. This time, Leila had to spoil herself, but she wasn’t about to complain. It wasn’t like they were making her wear a headscarf. Just the floaty duputa, worn around the shoulders unless it was time for prayers. The men wore prayer hats, too, in the mosque. When Leila was seven, she had asked her father why Allah hates looking down at the top of everyone’s head. She wondered if he felt the same way about heads that she felt about looking at people’s feet.
    â€œSo, are they taking you to see any sights while you’re here?” Zain asked.
    â€œI want to go to Shalimar Gardens,” Leila said, “And Badshahi Mosque, and I want to go for a camel ride.”
    â€œA camel ride?” Rabeea said. “There are no camel rides in Lahore.”
    â€œYes!” Wali insisted. “Lahore Zoo!”
    â€œI just want a picture of me riding a camel,” Leila said, and Rabeea gave her that same little disapproving smile.
    â€œPerhaps Leila would enjoy the Lahore Museum,” Babar Taya suggested.
    â€œAnd Kim’s gun,” Samir added. “Leila likes Kipling.”
    Leila wondered where that had come from. She hadn’t said that, had she?
    â€œDo you?” Zain said to her, as if Kipling were a very amusing thing to like. “You should have them take you to the new shopping mall.”
    â€œOh, yes, they’ve done a lovely job with it,” Mrs. Haq agreed. “Marble everywhere!” She gestured wildly, as if to help them all envision the masses of marble.
    â€œLeila doesn’t care about a shopping mall.” Samir sounded a little irritated.
    â€œOf course she does,” Rabeea snapped. “It’s air-conditioned.”
    Leila wondered why everyone seemed to know what she liked, all of a sudden.
    â€œI want to go!” Wali piped up. “Leila will like it; there’s a McDonald’s!”
    Zain laughed, and so did Rabeea. Then Leila laughed a little, too, so as not to be left out. Samir’s arched eyebrow lifted another fraction of an inch.
    â€œWell, perhaps we’ll all go,” Babar Taya began.
    â€œInshallah,” Mrs. Haq said.
    â€œInshallah,” Jamila Tai agreed.
    â€œI know you’re there, I can hear your voice!” An eight-foot-tall giant stormed into the dining room as Chirragh scowled behind him. Leila let out a little shriek, and then realized it wasn’t a giant, after all. It was Mamoo, in his bowler hat. “You can’t avoid me now!”
    â€œAs-salaam alaikum, Uncle,” Zain said, and soon everyone was greeting the furious man in the three-piece suit. Babar Taya soothed him and offered him a chair, insisting that he hadn’t been avoiding Mamoo in the sort of soft voice one uses when diffusing a three-year-old’s tantrum.
    â€œDo you think he uses a time machine when he shops for clothes?” Zain murmured, just loudly enough for Leila to hear. She giggled, naturally. He could have said anything, and she would have giggled. As I said: scrambled.
    â€œOh, hello, Mrs. Haq,” Mamoo said. “My, my. Whatlovely jewels.” He said this without enthusiasm, and Mrs. Haq’s eyes narrowed to little slits.
    â€œHello, Mr. Bilal. How is your work at the university?” Mrs. Haq’s voice was like acid, dripping from her lips as if it might burn a hole in the carpet.
    Mamoo removed his hat and jutted his chin proudly. “My research is doing quite well, thank you.”
    â€œMashallah,” Mrs. Haq replied.
    Leila had the feeling that, even though most of it was in English, this conversation required a translator. Things were being said, but she didn’t know what they meant.
    â€œWell,