“It’s fine.” I smiled. “Sometime I’ll tell you the story behind my having two names. Three, if you count Nanu, which is reserved for Jehad.” Almas was long gone by then.

A day or two into my trip, Bilal invited me to early evening tea on a small hilltop overlooking a stretch of cultivated land and a pasture where some sheep roamed. I thought we would just drive to the spot, but I wore my most comfortable shoes for the occasion anyway—sandals with a midsize heel. Instead, we walked for what felt like miles after we parked the car, and my sensible heels were nonsensical. I wobbled over the terrain as best I could, trying to disguise my discomfort, and Bilal caught me around the waist when I almost fell. He suggested I walk barefoot.

“And get stung by scorpions? No thank you.”

He chuckled. “No scorpions in these parts.”

“Snakes, then,” I retorted. “There must be snakes.”

“Well, yes. Sometimes.” He smiled, then tapped his arm. “Here. At least lean on me if it helps.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He smiled again, raising one eyebrow—he could do that too! “I am.”

“You should have told me my shoes were inappropriate.”

“And miss all this?” He laughed.

It was natural to be in Bilal’s company, away from the rest of humanity. I balanced myself with a hand on his shoulder; he had his arms poised to catch me again, until we reached a clearing near the top, on the side of the hill. He sat on the dirt under a large olive tree, its low branches extending from its knotted trunk. A cool breeze rustled the leaves and blew my hair into a mess. Bilal began pulling objects out of his bag: a dented tin kettle, a small gas babbour, tea glasses, a large water bottle, and plastic bags of loose tea, sage, sugar, and bizir—but no blanket to sit on.

He must have read my mind, because he spread the canvas bag on the ground. “Here, you can sit on this,” he said. I leaned awkwardly on the tree and lowered myself to the ground, removed my heels, and let out a sigh of relief.

Bilal smiled but didn’t say anything. He lit the babbour, poured water into the kettle, and made sweet hot tea with just the right hint of sage.

Ahead, we could see construction activity in a new Jewish-only colony, which, he explained, had started a year before when settlers brought trailers to camp on Bilal’s family’s land and never left. The trucks were some distance away, however. “They’re laying water pipes,” Bilal said.

“Why are the pipes aboveground?”