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42 The Village Well You were children, curious. Something splashed in the belly of the well and she took your hand, descended into the mouth opened wide, step by concrete step down its dark spiral throat. The creature that unhinged the damp stillness of that well was not a man, not an animal— just the silhouette of something vast. . . . You thought it was God, she thought it was djinn, and then you with fear did not think at all, running back up breathless, the chill of the well at your heels. That night you didn’t wait for his leg to accidently rub against yours, or his hand accidentally brush your thigh as it always did, away from eyes that never blinked. Instead, you reached for his knee, the flesh and bone of this gray man who pretended to be daddy’s friend. Beneath the table laden with almond rice your mother had lovingly cooked, the saffron-stewed lamb, the chicken smothered in herbs . . . you squeezed, squeezed so hard his eyes turned your direction and melted into a watery scream like the one still rising in the throat of that well. ...

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