The mice no longer just hovered around the chicken coop under the jujube tree. They had infiltrated the houses. I would smell a sour, earthy odor, the source of which I couldn't identify, whenever I lay down on the living room sofas. And although I had never actually seen a mouse inside the house, my mother, Hessa, would insist, whenever she moved the sofa cushions to reveal dark brown droppings about the size of grains of rice, that they were mice. You didn't have to see them to know they were among us! I remembered her promise. I reminded her: "When will you tell me the story of the four mice?" She pretended to be busy cleaning. "At night," she replied. Night came, like every night. She took off her dentures. She spoke in the darkness of her room. She began the story: "Visit the son of the starling, who never lied or swore falsely..."