CHAPTER FOUR Rashida lay on her bed on Wednesday afternoon, listening to the bang of Grandma's aluminium pan and the hiss of the primus stove as she heated water for the washing. Friday was the usual day for washing clothes, unless Grandma was upset, like now. Then she did it whenever she pleased. Rashida sighed. It was hot and stuffy in the small bedroom and she half wished she were outsice with Grandma. But Grandma wanted to talk, and Rashida couldn't. Not yet. She turned over her pillow, hoping it was cooler on the other side, and felt the brush of metal The mirror gleamed dully. She'd forgotten allabout it and now she picked it up, still half asleep, half full of dreams, It was like another dream, fuzzy at first, a blur of a dark room, and a figure seated on the floor. The reflection wavered and then cleared igrew so sharp that she could see the pots standing in rows, could smell the smoke wafting through the door and an acrid sourness, too, that she didn't recognise. And from nearby, the sound of angry voices and the feeling of fear The girl sat with her back to the wall, listening to the pounding feet outside and the confused jumble of thoices. She carefully filled a pot with the sour- smelling dough, coughing as a wave of smoke drifted in from the oven, her ears straining to hear what was going on