She shook her head: “I still won’t accept it, by God.” He said, “Alright then do what you must.” After he spoke, he teased the girl near him, “Go under the car and check for my money, even if they beat you I won’t care.”

Without fear she crawled under the old vehicle and started searching, even though she suspected the money wasn’t there.

She called out, “I’ll call the police now — we’ll go to the station; your madness is fake.” She left the spot quickly.

He stood hugging his chest and watching her under the old car as she searched.

She came out sweating and said, “Baba, I didn’t find the money….” They looked at each other. He calmly said, “There is no money there.” He nodded toward her. She stepped closer to him; when he tried to push her, he sat down holding his knees, still watching her.

Baba Asabe, full of confidence, went to the police station to tell them what had happened. When they heard her story, they dismissed it because they already knew about cases of law with mad people — generally nothing serious had ever been attributed to the madman in their neighborhood, and so they sent her away and gave her counsel not to say again she would press charges against a mad person, since the authority had decided such accusations fall away when dealing with mental illness.

She left the station shaken to the core, heartbroken and thinking about what penalty to impose on the girl.

Shahida remained standing there, feeling that Baba Asabe would be displeased about the money — today she expected to be scolded.

She felt his eyes on her but fear kept her from turning to look; she sensed fury in his gaze — what else could that look mean?

He watched her for a long while, then let out a deep sigh and, with his hand, tugged at the edge of her hijab. In that instant they turned and their eyes met. His voice rose loudly: “Who is she?”

Her heart broke; tears welled up and she tried to hold them back. In a fragile voice she said, “Kakata.” (“Kakata” — likely a name/nickname.)

“Where are your parents?” he asked, still staring at her. She bowed her head, on the verge of crying, and he repeated the question.

Her voice shook: “My mother died. My father is in the Ja’in neighborhood with his wife and other children.”