The lights died mid-blink. In the sudden darkness, a boy yanked the community-center door while an elderly woman gripped her plastic chair. Mariam pulled a flashlight from the supply cabinet and clicked it on.
Mariam’s beam wavered in her hands while rain hammered the tin roof like drumming palms. Two pairs of eyes stared at her from the dark shadows near the entrance.
Water threaded through a ceiling tile. Mariam flung her school bag over the boy's head just as a cold drip splatted his forehead. He mumbled that the building was melting.
Mariam cupped the woman's ear and shouted that they were safe. She scrabbled for a receipt and wrote 'I'LL FIX THE LEAK' in thick marker, holding it up to the dim light.
The woman lunged forward, fingers closing around Mariam's wrist with a startling grip. The walls groaned—a low, wooden creak—and the puddle near the foundation swelled rapidly.
Mariam hauled plastic bins from the kitchen and barked orders at the boy. He ran, sneakers squeaking across the wet linoleum, placing bins at the seams where the water pooled.
The rain roared so loud her voice got swallowed. For one second, the whole ceiling dipped and dripped everywhere at once. Then the downpour shuddered, thinned, and dropped to a whisper.
The boy stepped forward and squeezed Mariam's hand, his small fingers trembling. The elderly woman leaned close and whispered thank you. Mariam turned to the window, smelling damp sand and jasmine.
