Underneath our heels and the tiny bones of our feet, the bones of the earth heave and scream as a horse strains against a heavy load, as two palms pressed together bloom upwards. This eternal collision birthed long ribs and sloping spines furred green and cloud brushed. One morning, in the quiet sleep after breaking Ramadan’s fast, the sun shouldered over the horizon. One fragment of the world’s shell overcame its bonds and thrust a sudden edge over its sibling before friction halted it again. In that millisecond, the slip sent thunder rolling in waves that cut the legs off houses and folded schools like crumpled hands.

In a tiny New York hostel, a Pakistani girl wiped wet landslides from her eyes and gasped small aftershocks into her tiny phone.