" Ambo opens his eyes and snaps to awareness—looking around wildly. He tries to move his hands, but he can’t; his wrists have been bound to a wooden armchair. It takes him a moment to recognize it, to remember how he got there.

Arla is standing next to him, looking withered. Skin mottled and sweaty. Her eyes are swollen, and the cloth of the hijab has unraveled slightly. She whispers something to him, and it sounds like she’s asking whether he’s okay, but he can’t make out the words.

He tells her to repeat herself. Louder this time, child.

'I said, what are we going to do? "

― Jonathan R. Miller , Delivery