Baby laughter is a drug.
Majed knew this now in a way he hadn't known anything before Amir — not viscerally, not in his chest. Three-month-old Amir had been laughing for two weeks, and Majed had spent those two weeks trying to make it happen again. The laugh was short, surprised, like it was still learning its own sound. Like Amir himself couldn't believe he was capable of it.
The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead. The living room was warm and gold with afternoon light. From the kitchen came the smell of Noor's rice — saffron, cardamom — and the quiet sounds of her moving between counter and stove.
Majed held Amir above his head, arms straight, and lifted.
The laugh came.
He lifted again. Higher. The laugh came again, louder, more sure of itself.
"Majed." Noor's voice from the kitchen. Not sharp yet. Careful.
"He loves it." Majed brought Amir down to his chest, pressed his nose against the soft warm hair of his son's head. Amir smelled of milk and talc and something that had no name. Then he lifted him again. "Listen to him."
"The paediatrician said—"
"I know what she said."
He did know. Twelve days ago, Dr. Samira had sat across from them with her hands folded and talked about neck muscle development, about the fragility of the infant brain, about shaking and impact and the things that look like play but are not. Noor had taken notes on her phone. Majed had nodded.
Amir laughed.
The warning lived somewhere in the back of his mind — he could locate it if he tried, the precise shape of the doctor's words — but the laugh was here, right now, warm and real and directed at him. At Baba. No one else made Amir laugh like this.
One more time. Just once more.
What about you?
The doctor had warned them. He had nodded. He threw Amir up anyway. Before this story, did you know that tossing a baby can cause serious brain injury?
He lifted higher. Amir's feet cleared Majed's head. The laugh became a shriek of delight.
Noor said his name again from the kitchen.
The ceiling fan had a wobble in one blade — Majed had noticed it the week they moved in and added it to the list. The list was long. Three months of things he'd meant to do.
He threw Amir up.
Saw the arc a half-second too late.
The fan blade was a sound before it was anything else.
Then Amir was no longer laughing.
Majed caught him. He did catch him. His arms were there and his son was in them and he went to his knees on the living room floor and said Amir's name once, quietly, as if volume might make it worse.
Amir did not answer.
The Aftermath
Emergency Room Report
Infant male, age 3 months. Blunt force trauma, right cranial. Cardiac arrest during transport. Resuscitation attempted: 24 minutes. Time of death: 16:41.
Paediatrician's Clinical Note — Dr. Samira
Patient seen for routine check twelve days prior. Parents advised against tossing, shaking, or rapid vertical movement of infant. Rationale explained: underdeveloped cervical musculature, vulnerability of infant brain to acceleration-deceleration forces. Parents acknowledged. No further questions raised. Appointment closed.
Noor's Entry — Grief Support Group, Week 4
"I keep smelling the rice I was making. I burned it — I heard the sound and I ran out and I forgot to turn off the stove. The house smelled of saffron and something burning for days. I can't cook rice anymore. I can't explain that to people. They think it's about grief. It is. But it's also just the smell."