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"Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear." (Qur'an 2:286)

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"Three, two, one, pose!"

Cameras flash and lights dance and dim as the young female in front of the green screen places a hand on her hip and turns the other way, the Pakistani shalwar kameez decorating her in bright and vibrant colors.

Zoya Zameer walks around her crew, fanning herself with her favorite flower-patterned fan. She decided to join the shoot after a very long time today, telling herself it had nothing to do with the new intern but struggling to make good on that statement.

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes, momentarily distracted and and sensing something off in the shoot. "Halt," she says in that authoritative voice that makes everyone freeze in their tracks. She points to the model. "We need some of Sumaiya sitting down on the sofa. She needs to cross her legs and place the kameez on her knees so that the dupatta can drape naturally over it. It's going to look fabulous," she singsongs.

The crew obeys her command and — when she's not looking — the photographing lead shoots her a glare.

Haroun stands to the side with a clipboard in his hand, making notes of the breakdown of the photographing session. Zoya sees an opening and walks over to him, fluffing her hair and shooting him her perfect Colgate-teeth smile. His responding smile is polite but reserved.

Zoya flips her curls behind her shoulder. "What do you think?" Her voice is sugary sweet.

He continues to take frantic notes. She notices how he avoids looking at the female model as much as possible, focusing instead on the props around her or flickering his gaze to the male photographer instead. "Very nice."

She raises her eyebrows. "Very descriptive."

"I apologize," he says, looking up from his notes with a tired smile. "I'm just trying not to miss anything."

Zoya lets out a peal of high-pitched laughter. "Week one and already Zameer Co. has gotten you into the nitty gritty of things?"

He nods tightly, continuously looking back up at the photographer, who is now focused on a male dressed in an intricately embroidered wedding sherwani. The prop team shuffles around and grabs things to add and take away from the set.

Zoya's eyes trace Haroun's features, and again she is surprised by how attractive she finds him. "So what do you think of his clothes?"

"Hmm? Oh, they're nice."

"Just nice?" she challenges. Come on, she pleads silently. I know you've got more in you.

Haroun stops writing and turns to Zoya. He's a good head taller than her, but with her confident posture and bright eyes, Zoya is able to intimidate all.

There is an agitated look on his face and his eyes seem distracted as they dart around the area. Zoya wonders what he's thinking about. But despite the discomfort on his face, to her surprise his voice still comes out polite and respectful when he speaks. "It's fantastic, Ms. Zoya."

"Really? That doesn't sound very wholehearted, Mr. Suleiman."

He grabs his pen and twirls it in his fingers. "No, seriously, it's awesome. Really. Great job." With the way he's speaking, one would think he's picking cereal flavors rather than designed embroideries.

The lights continue to flash around them. Flora, one of Zoya's favorite and most dedicated workers, walks forward with a lamp and sets it on the table beside the sofa the model is sitting on.

"I'm glad you like it. You know — " Zoya stops instantly, her eyes focusing on the lamp Flora just placed on the table. The soft orange light spreads in a halo under the umbrella of the lamp. Zoya's breath catches and Haroun watches her expectantly, his dark eyes boring into the side of her head.

"Ms. Zoya?"

No.

She cannot seem to speak. Her hand flies to her chest, bangles jingling merrily. Her heart starts to beat like helicopter blades, quick and persistent.

"Um, Ms. Zoya?"

The lamp shade squeaks as her hand flies to the bedside table, almost knocking it over. The sharp beads at the bottom of the lamp shade slice her wrist.

"Stop," she whimpers.

"Get that off the set," Zoya breaks out of the memory and finally finds her voice. "Flora, off the set right now. And I don't want to see it again. Throw it away. Burn it. I don't care. Don't ever bring that in front of me again." Her voice holds so much venom in comparison to a minute ago.

A frantic Flora stammers something incomprehensible before rushing forward, grabbing the lamp, and hurrying away with it.

Zoya's breath comes in sporadic waves. She turns on her pale pink heel and rushes into the elevator, insistently pushing the button for the doors to close.

"Ms. Zoya, where are you going?" Haroun calls out, his deep voice revealing utter confusion.

Zoya spins around on her heel, furrows her eyebrows together as if in deep thought, then points to her wrist suddenly. "It's dhuhr time," she declares, continuing to frantically push the elevator buttons.

And then the doors slide closed and Zoya's distressed face disappears.

. . .

Haroun continues to grip his pen and stare at the elevator in confusion. After a moment of silence, the shoot resumes and a very confused collection of employees direct the models back to their poses. The photographing lead is whisper-shouting at Flora, hissing, "Don't you remember that time when she —"

But Haroun loses focus on the rest of the conversation because something is nagging at him. Oh, he thinks suddenly. It is dhuhr time. A bout of frustration consumes him at having not paid attention to the time, and he looks around at his environment with great distaste. Then he walks over to Bill and hands him the clipboard. "Mr. Krenak, do you mind taking care of this for a little bit?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Are you going on vacation?"

Haroun thinks of his five daily prayers. "Something like that." He sees the skeptical look on Mr. Krenak's face and almost laughs. "I'm going to pray."

Immediately, the senior manager's face goes from disbelieving to serious. "Oh, right, sorry."

"Don't apologize. Do you know where I can pray? Where does Ms. Zoya usually pray?"

Mr. Krenak rubs his chin. "In her office, I think. But you're not allowed in there unless it's strictly work-related."

Haroun fingers a button on his jean jacket absentmindedly. "Right."

The other man shrugs. "You can use my office. Whenever you want."

"Really? Thank you, Mr. Krenak."

"Bill. Call me Bill." He shoots Haroun a lopsided grin.

Haroun walks into the elevator and pushes the button to go up. When the doors slide open ten seconds later, he stops in surprise.

Zoya's back is to him, her head down and one hand pressed against the wall, the other clutching her stomach.

"Ms. Zoya?" Haroun says. She flinches in surprise but doesn't turn around. "Are you alright?" He can hear her laborious breathing from a few feet away. Her shoulders move up and down as she heaves breaths in and out.

"I'm fine." Her voice sounds very far away. "Don't worry about me. You can go back down to the shoot. I'll be there in a minute."

Haroun's body is almost ready to leave, surprising even him. Something tells him these are dangerous waters. But his heart keeps him rooted to the ground. "I give you counsel that you be good to women," the prophet Muhammad had said. His mother has strictly drilled that into his head.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Zoya's curls fly as she whips around. "I said I'm fine." Her eyebrows suddenly furrow, as if realizing what she just said. She fumbles for the fan hooked to the side of her kameez and unclasps it, spreading it open and fanning herself. Her shoulders shake as she breathes heavily, but suddenly she gives Haroun a wide grin. "I'm okay, sweetheart."

Haroun grimaces slightly. Sweetheart.

"Did you need something?" she asks in a tone of forced calm.

"I just needed to pray. I was going to Mr. Krenak's office — "

"You can use mine," she interrupts quickly, flashing him a pearl white-teethed smile.

But you're not allowed in there unless it's strictly work-related.

Haroun lowers his eyes. "It's okay. Thank you for the offer, but I'll use his office." And before she can say anything else, he steps back and walks away from the unsettling aura in that hallway.

When he's a safe distance away, he shakes his head, trying to shake off the disturbing feeling that has formed in his heart.

. . .