The grandfather looks out at the sky and the bright red earth. He instinctively raises the back of his hand to his brow to wipe away a few beads of sweat. The heat, which came early this year, will linger well past dusk today. He breathes in and out slowly, as if trying to reproduce the rhythm of the landscape. The mountains around him are dotted with argan, carob, and olive trees as well as tufts of thyme and cypress. He knows he should go home, that the mosquitos will begin to target his arms and ankles soon, that Anir is waiting for him. And so is she.

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Is she, though?

Like the mountains, she has seemed indifferent to everything and everyone since that night. Every time he thinks about her, he sighs and an image reappears: the mother and child. . . . No, don’t think about that, he tells himself. Just marvel at the sky, the ground, the trees.…