After breakfast, Rashid Uncle tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped a little, surprised. He held up the chalkboard. The doll I’m making is for you, it said. Then he pointed to a small block of roughly carved wood sitting on top of the stool he sat on to do his work. I could see the rough shape of a head and shoulders. I was too old for dolls, but I would never tell Rashid Uncle that. I went over and touched the wood, feeling the bumpiness of it. He hadn’t smoothed out all the edges yet. “Thank you,” I said, bowing my head a little. “I will keep it always.” Something has changed. I’m starting to
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