Hamza didn’t leave his room after that Friday afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him, and he stayed there, the walls pressing in, the air thick with his own silence. Her scream—Rida’s scream—still rang in his head, but it wasn’t just that. It was her ankle under his hands, the oil slick on his fingers, that pale stretch of skin he’d seen when her abaya lifted. Two, three inches, maybe—nothing to most people. Everythi...