It mattered not what Mohammed taught— the works, the prayers, the pillars. Her thoughts were not concerned with these as sisters dressed her wounds and tried as best they could to soothe her troubled mind. Neither threat of virus nor fetus’ curse frightened a hurt soul more than one all-important fear. Not humiliation or disgrace, pain, or memory of his face; and so she asked with trepidation: Will it show? Will my husband know? All the sisters understood, and would have feared the same had they been lying on that bed. So as night turned into morning she withheld her screams of pain, while women mended, bandaged wounds, and added other cuts and bruises to disguise as best they could injury as a robbers act, to spare their friend a greater pain— a husband’s eye, keen to learn if his wife’s become unclean, and if she is, to cast her out for Allah’s good.