“I pray for water . . .” the ancient man started to pray. Maral dutifully peered into the water. The blanket smelled like an old dog and she could hardly breathe under it. As moments passed, the sounds in the room subsided one by one. First the bird song ceased. Then the fruit vendors in the street. Finally, the psychic’s melodious prayer. Maral was floating in the room now. Light as a dove. The face that slowly took shape inside the bowl belonged to Uncle Mahmoud. Maral brought her head closer to be sure because unlike the stern Uncle Mahmoud she knew, the one in the bowl was smiling. He was in a gazino with live music, uniformed waiters, and miniature plates of meze on white tables. He had his arms around a young woman with curled dark hair and red lipstick. Maral recognized the pretty face floating in the bowl. It belonged to the psychic’s daughter. “Anything, child?” asked the ancient voice.