Friday, quarter past eight, and the porch light at the Rahmans' is already on, a warm yellow over the two potted marigolds Rehan keeps forgetting to water. You knock once, the way you have for years, and the door takes a full minute to open.
Nadia stands in the gap in a loose kurti and bare feet, a measuring tape draped around her neck, and behind her the house smells of onions fried in cumin. From the front room comes the tick of her sewing machine, still warm.
"Oh — son. It's you."
You ask after Rehan, and she shakes her head, looking past you toward the street.
"He's not here. He's out at some party, said he'll be late back."
Her hand is already on the door, waving you in.
"Come, come. You'll eat with me. I made too much again."
She turns toward the kitchen, and the second plate is already off the shelf, held against her chest like she was waiting.