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arrived. With him were Mirza Hassan, Zabihollah, and Karbalai Doshanbeh, who entered from the alleyway. But Zabihollah hadn’t realized that a woman had fought with his cousin. So, before Zabihollah could make a move, Kadkhoda Norouz passed by the side of Salar Abdullah and entered the room. Mergan was standing with the shovel in her hands, her eyes wide open. The boys, Abbas and Abrau, were on either side, leaning against the walls. Hajer was shaking. The Kadkhoda took the shovel from Mergan’s hands and laid a backhanded slap against her face.
    “Troublemaker! Stirring up things?”
    He left the room, tossed the shovel to one side, and handed Salar Abdullah his headscarf. Then he shouted at the crowd, “So what are you all standing here for? Is there something to see here?”
    Salar Abdullah tied the scarf around his head. Agha Malak’s son-in-law grabbed him under the arms, and along with the others—Zabihollah, Karbalai Doshanbeh, and Kadkhoda Norouz—he left.
    Mergan fell to her knees in the doorway of the house. She covered her face with her hands and, with a wail, let go of a cry that had been locked away inside of her heart until that moment.

2 .
    The moist earth was frozen beneath the boys’ feet. The icy soil sent painful jabs through their bare soles, as if they were walking on crushed glass. For all their effort, they had little to show for it. The sun was already climbing into the sky but Abrau and Abbas had gathered less than a bushel of corkwood each. The roots of the plants had frozen in the soil, and the tendrils of the roots were thoroughly entwined in the earth, making it as if the plants were rooted in stone. Pulling out each root required more effort than it otherwise should have, straining and hurting their backs and shoulders. At times, it felt as if a snake had twisted itself around Abrau’s waist. His face was contorted—his eyes squinted, lines emerged in the corners of his eyes, and his eyelashes would press together—expressing his pain in a thousanddifferent signs. But Abrau couldn’t dare to let even a quiet cry escape through his lips. This was because Abbas was heartless, always competing at work. Because of this, he would goad Abrau constantly and incessantly. He did so both for the excuse of driving him on as well as to ensure that Abrau didn’t manage to sneak off with a few of the roots that Abbas had himself collected and set aside.
    While working, Abbas did his best to make Abrau jealous. If Abrau’s bundle of wood was smaller than Abbas’—which it always was—he would sting his brother with sharp and mocking jibes. He would do his best to poison his mood. Not infrequently, this would lead to pushing and shoving between them. Their argument would become a fight, and they’d go at each other. Abrau was the one who was always eventually hurt and would end the contest by crying. On this day, his pain came from the stubbornness of the earth, but also from Salar’s short-handled sickle, which was unfamiliar to his hands. This added to Abrau’s frustration, because if the blade of the sickle passed over a stalk of corkwood once without hooking it, then pulling it out afterward was a hundred times more difficult. This was because a first swing would scrape off the rough-hewn outer skin of the stalk, only exposing the smooth and moist inner core, which was much more difficult to hook with the blade of the instrument. And no self-respecting man would allow himself to just leave the uncut stalks standing there, surrounded by the others that had been cut. This is why the work required a sharp-edged sickle and strong upper arms—neither of which Abrau possessed—so that the stalks could be pulled right out of the heart of the compressed earth. Neither did he have a decenttool to work with, nor hands with strength to speak of. His bones hadn’t set yet. His muscles were loose, like water. Even though in his short life his fingers had grown thick and calloused, Abrau had still