Birinci Mara’ya fan club kurabiliriz.
“What shall I call you?”
She sits beside me, looking straight ahead, but I see her smile in profile. “I told you my name.”
“I can’t call you . . .”
“Mara?” She finishes for me. “Why not?”
Because her name sticks in my throat. Because the sound of it might kill me.
“It was my name first,” she says.
Her voice snaps me back to attention, to this moment, facing this not-Mara beside me.
“Fine,” I say. “Your family name, then.”
“Which one?”
Her eyes are quick, laughing.
