Most days were spent at the bakery. Bilal and I would arrive in the mornings to find Ghassan and his sister already baking bread for the line of customers. I helped out—cleaning, organizing, serving, and getting to know customers, but Ghassan and his sister remained remote, overly polite to me. I reciprocated their coolness, adding a little sarcasm whenever the spirit moved me.

On one occasion, I noticed two customers disappear into the back room of the shop, as if going to the washroom, only they didn’t come back. It had happened once before, and both times the customers exchanged nearly imperceptible nods or glances with Bilal or Ghassan. I instinctively knew not to follow or investigate. Bilal and I closed up the store that evening and delivered a batch of bread to the mosque. The sky was still dusted in twilight as we drove home. Electric lights dotted the illegal colony on the adjacent hilltop.

“Looks like the settlers have electricity now,” Bilal remarked.

A small fire flickered outside Bilal’s home. “My mother is probably roasting chestnuts with my aunties. Let’s go.” He locked the car and we walked toward the house.

I awoke late the next morning to find Bilal looking out the window through binoculars. Hajjeh Um Mhammad was tending to the vegetable garden.

“Morning of goodness,” I whispered.

“Morning of roses and jasmine,” Bilal responded.

“What are you looking at?”

“Come see. The sons of bitches are extending the water pipe,” he said, handing me the binoculars.

The work was low in the valley, but I could see the pipe, propped up on cement footings every few meters.

“It’s so close,” I said.

“Yes. It’s actually on our property.”

“What will we do?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said.

“Is this the reason for the subversive meetings in the back of the store?”

He hesitated. “I noticed you noticing. I’ll explain later.”

I wondered if Bilal wasn’t still part of the resistance, but he ignored my question about the mysterious meetings. I didn’t ask again, disappointed that he didn’t trust me, and sulked for the rest of the evening, skipping dinner for an early bed. Hajjeh Um Mhammad thought I wasn’t feeling well and made me chamomile tea. “This will settle your body, my daughter,” she said.

When I didn’t get up with them in the morning, Hajjeh Um Mhammad came into my room, but I feigned sleep. She felt my forehead and walked out quietly. I heard Bilal’s voice outside but couldn’t make out what he said. A while later, he knocked at my door.

“Are you mad at me?”