The man in the grey t-shirt walks round the edge of the fountain, crosses the road and goes into Grind.
Xoriyo looks at the faces of the people sitting, the man on his bike. No one is looking at her.
The English lady and her father sit on a bench in the shade, like they know each other as well as all the other people sitting on benches in the sun.
She likes the English lady’s name, Clara. Clarr a. Kla – rra.
She likes the way her father is leaning one hand on the bench, the other hand talking.
Lady Clar-rra uses her father’s name, Nur, but she says it too small sounding.
Her father is laughing. When her father laughs she knows Somalia and the mooryan in the technicals with their dark guns and starey qat eyes are not just the other side of the wooden door, the hot dust and sharp bushes she hid among with father and mother and Jamal and Muxsin are not just behind the lion.
No one is interested in her and that is wonderful.
She likes how if you walk under the arches of water you can feel them cold in the air.
Xoriyo sits down between her father and Lady Klarra, snuggles into him, Lady Klarra ruffles her hair and says to her father, ‘She’s a little angel.’