“Yes they will！” I said。 “None of the children in that city have a mother or a
father。 Hayriye； go downstairs and check the doors again。 We’ll probably be
asleep by the middle of the story。”
“I won’t fall asleep；” said Orhan。
“Where is Black going to sleep tonight？” said Shevket。
“In the workshop；” I said。 “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can
warm up nicely under the quilt。 Whose icy little feet are these？”
“Mine；” said Shevket。 “Where will Hayriye sleep？”
I’d begun telling the story； and as always； Orhan fell asleep first； after
which I lowered my voice。
“After I fall asleep； you’re not going to leave the bed； right； Mama？” said
Shevket。
“No； I won’t leave。”
I really didn’t intend to leave。 After Shevket fell asleep； I was musing about
how pleasurable it was to fall asleep cuddled up with my sons on the night of
my second wedding—with my handsome； intelligent and desirous husband in
the next room。 I’d dozed off with such thoughts； but my sleep was fitful。 Later；
this is what I remembered about that strange restless realm between dreaming
and wakefulness： First I settled accounts with my deceased father’s angry
spirit； then I fled the specter of that disgraceful murderer who wanted to send
me off to be with my father。 As he pursued me； the unyielding murderer； even
more terrifying than my father’s spirit； began making a clattering ruckus。 In
my dream； he tossed stones at our house。 They struck the windows and landed
on the roof。 Later； he tossed a rock at the door； at one point even trying to
force it open。 Next； when this evil