I heard Jazad come in around 4:30, a full hour before usual. I got out of bed and found him sitting in our tiny kitchen, head in his hands. In the stark glare of the hanging lamp his hair was almost pure white.
“I can’t do it, Fatima.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Three of us share the medallion. For us to make rent I need to clear at least a hundred a night. Guess what I make tonight? Thirty-five dollars for ten hours of driving my cab.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“It won’t help.”
“It can’t hurt.”