At the cemetery’s mosque, a woman washed the body according to Islamic ritual. No other family members were present. An imam administering another funeral saw the men alone, brought guests from that funeral to their side, and led prayers in Turkish. Sidra’s uncles, who speak only Arabic, did not understand them.

The two men buried their niece in a shallow grave, roughly two feet long, near the top of a hill overlooking the mosque. It was identified by small concrete markers and a five-digit number.

By mid-September, the three survivors’ burns had scarred over. Shahad — burned across her abdomen, arms, back and legs, but healing — was reunited with her parents. The family moved from hospital beds to mattresses on a cramped apartment rented by Nada’s father, Adel, an auto mechanic who is also a refugee.

Adel said he did not understand why the Islamic State would fire into neighborhoods instead of at places where rebels congregated. “The bases are known, the positions are known,” he said. “What was the purpose of targeting a home?”

But he spoke of forgiveness, not vengeance. “God will not have mercy on us until we have mercy on each other,” he said, over tea, as his son-in-law coughed beside him in one room and the sounds of his daughter’s coughs could be heard from the next room.

The family had almost no clothing. Their possessions had been contaminated in the attack. Abu Anas had managed to save little more than his cellphone, which he washed in alcohol and dried in the sun.

Wincing, weak and short of breath, wearing sunglasses inside as he rested beside a plastic bag of phlegm-soaked tissues, Abu Anas was waiting for space in a Turkish refugee camp.