Nadia began thinking about the rent because the mind, when frightened badly enough, developed a vulgar affection for useless details.
And sometime after three in the morning, sitting barefoot on the cold floor outside her son's bedroom with her back against the wall and a phone she had stopped trusting lying face down beside her, the number came to her with perfect, ridiculous clarity.
The apartment cost fourteen thousand a month.
Fourteen thousand for the view over the city, for the pale stone floors that stayed cool even in summer, for the white walls and the clean lines and the enormous windows that made Amman look distant enough to be survivable.
Fourteen thousand for the silence of expensive walls, for the concierge downstairs who knew everyone's names and pretended not to notice when people came home with ruined mascara and the expression of someone who had just been informed that grief was not, in fact, a temporary arrangement.
Fourteen thousand for safety.
For order.
