Mornings at the playground were busier than late afternoons. Four other mothers were there with their children, who were playing in the sandbox. A circle of older children, maybe seven or eight years of age, were lining up at the far end of the dirt path that ran along the wall, readying for a race.
Sullha sat down on the blanket beside Asira, and Tomek went straight to the climbing frame without a backward look.
"Couldn't wait another moment," Asira said.
Sullha chuckled. "Kids have boundless energy."
"They are a lot of work." Asira picked up a pencil and turned to face Sullha.
She narrowed her eyes at her, assessing the face she meant to draw.
"Loosen up. You're posing."
"I'm not posing."
"You are. Think about something that will keep your mind occupied, and look over my shoulder, not straight at me. That way you'll forget that I'm here and your face will relax."
"Fine." Sullha thought about Yaaf, and worry washed over her.
After a moment, Asira sighed. "Whatever you were thinking about wasn't good. Just look at the children."
Sullha did as the artist suggested.
The older kids had finished organizing themselves into two ragged lines. A taller girl with a long, dark braid was the starter. She held up her hand, said something Sullha could not hear, dropped it, and the eight or nine of them took off down the dirt path, sandals slapping, arms pumping, their faces scrunched in concentration.
A boy in a shirt that was two sizes too big for his small frame was leading. A taller boy ran beside him, matching him stride for stride, and at the very end of the path, just before the marked finish line, the taller boy slowed down by a fraction, and the smaller one crossed first and threw up his arms in triumph.
They were brothers. She'd seen them in the yard before but didn't remember their names. They both started with B. That's all she could recall, and she wasn't sure about that either.
The older boy bent over and put his hands on his knees, making a show of being out of breath for his younger brother.
Sullha's eyes prickled.
"Don't move," Asira said softly, the pencil scratches on the paper intensifying. "Hold that look."
"What look?"
"Dreamy. Wistful. Like you're seeing something that isn't there."
"I'm seeing something that is there. I'm just remembering something else because of it."
"Don't tell me. Just hold it."
She could do that.
The taller boy at the end of the dirt path had straightened up and was clapping the smaller boy on the back. The smaller boy was practically vibrating with the joy of having won.
Sullha felt the years melt away.
She was nine, racing Yaaf along the path beside the kitchen. He was a head taller and twice as fast, and he was slowing down at the last moment and pretending to be winded so she could cross first. Afterward, he'd done the same thing the older boy had done for his younger brother. He had bent over with his hands on his knees and breathed hard.
Yaaf had let her think she'd won, and it had taken her some time to realize that he'd been letting her win because he'd won every race she hadn't participated in.
"There," Asira said. "Hold it for a few more minutes. That's all I need."
Sullha didn't have to work hard to hold her expression.
Asira hadn't asked her what she'd been thinking about, which was a shame because it could have been the perfect segue to what she wanted to talk to the girl about.
