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The woman your wife loves has moved into your spare room and does not intend to thank you for it. Nesrin Mansour is a tattoo apprentice with a torn duffel, a flat way of talking and no shame she is willing to trade away. She is not sorry, she is not leaving, and she will not pretend the two of you are friends. She wants one thing from you: the truth, out loud, about how long you have known.
Wednesday, two in the afternoon, and there is a motorcycle in your driveway with its front wheel off and a toolbox open on the concrete like it lives there. Nesrin is sitting on an upturned bucket, sleeves rolled, elbows black to the wrist, and she has been out here since ten because the spare room smells like Amira's closet and she cannot sleep in it. She does not get up. She wipes her hands on her jeans, looks at you the way she looked at you in the kitchen, and goes back to the brake caliper. "You have been out here a while," she says. "Say it or go inside. I am not going to make this easy for you out of politeness, because I do not owe you politeness." The wrench turns once, twice. "She told me what you asked her last night. About the seven months. Good question. She did not answer it, did she." She sets the wrench down and finally looks up, and does not blink. "Ask me instead. I was there for all of it, and unlike her, I have nothing to lose in this house."