In the Language of Miracles by Rajia Hassib

front page the next day. Khaled knew exactly who had taken it, because he had seen the intern climb on top of a parked Ford Fiesta, which was probably the only way anyone could have captured both houses together. Samir, on the left-hand side, pulled Nagla back into the house. Khaled waved one hand toward the reporters, and Fatima struggled to get off the ground. On the right-hand side, Cynthia Bradstreet stood in her doorway, one hand covering her mouth, the silhouette of Jim Bradstreet barely visible behind her. And to the very far left the legs of the reporter, being helped up by her cameraman, protruded low and angular while one yellow shoe could barely be seen as it stood, still stuck in the dry grass. After that picture was published, Samir did not issue any more statements.
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    For months afterward Khaled and Fatima had begged their father to move the family away from Summerset, to relocate them to a place where people would not stare at them whenever they walked down the street, where they could go to school each morning and disappear in the comfort of anonymity. Again and again, Samir had refused todiscuss the subject. Finally, apparently weary of his children’s persistence, he had relented.
    â€œWhere do you think we could go?” Samir had asked. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at both of his children as they sat side by side on the living room sofa. Nagla, sitting in her armchair, had remained silent.
    â€œAnywhere but here,” Khaled answered.
    â€œAnd what am I supposed to do with the practice I spent almost twenty years building?”
    â€œYou could start a new one. Doctors do that all the time. Or find a hospital job. You always said doctors who are employed by hospitals have it a lot easier.”
    â€œIf they start out this way, yes. But not after I’ve spent decades running my own practice.”
    â€œThen start a new practice somewhere else.”
    â€œDo you think it’s
that
easy? Do you know how many years it takes to build a solid patient population?”
    â€œActually,
Baba
,” Fatima started, hesitated, and then went on, “you have been complaining about how many of your patients left. You know, after what happened.” She glanced at her mother. Nagla looked out the window into the darkness. “So we were thinking this might actually be a good time to move, since your practice—” she trailed off.
    Samir stared at her, blushing. “So you’re saying that I should move since I’m not making enough money here anymore, is that it?” he hissed.
    â€œNo,
Baba
, of course not. I didn’t mean—”
    â€œIf I’m going to be discussing finances with my teenage kids, let me take this a step further. Did you ever think of the cost of such a move? Do you think I can afford to relocate my practice now? Buy a new house? Pay a double mortgage until God knows when this house is sold?”
    â€œYou can always put this house on the market first. It might sell quickly,” Khaled said.
    â€œOh yes. Because people would race to buy our house, knowing your brother’s story. Houses with tragic histories always attract buyers that way, I presume.”
    Khaled saw his mother fidget. Still she said nothing.
    â€œAnd, while I’m waiting for this house to sell
and
paying to set up my new office, I should still be able to afford paying your tuition once you go to college in less than two years, is this correct? Do you think I own a money-printing press?”
    â€œI could always apply for a student loan,” Khaled said.
    His father glowered at him. Khaled fidgeted, looked at his mother and sister. Fatima threw a quick glance his way before looking down at her feet. His mother would not turn his way, even though he stared at her, waiting for her to say something or, at least, to give him a reassuring look. When Samir started talking again, his words were quaking with