At a client’s home a week later, I was dyeing and styling the hair of teenage twin sisters in advance of a classmate’s fourteenth birthday party. Their mother was paying me to “make them look better than everyone else.” She wanted her daughters’ hair to be “shiny, silky, and blondy” but didn’t want to send them to a salon where “everyone would know they got it done.” I charged her extra and made her pay in advance. The girls were pleasant enough, and I was working efficiently as they chatted about school, boys, and girls who were jealous of them. The TV hummed in the background, their younger siblings played noisily, and their mother paced about on the phone, in and out of the room, barking orders periodically for the little ones to behave.

The television presenter said a name that filtered through the ruckus: “Jandal al-Ramli.”

“Stop!” I yelled, running to turn up the TV with my gloved hands, getting hair dye on the volume controls.

“… a simple shepherd. Zionist authorities say he wandered with his flock into a military firing zone, but residents say that’s a lie. The village mukhtar said there is no way this was an accident, because they also shot fourteen of his animals and all of them were found where they normally graze. Doctors say it appears he was shot at point-blank range. Meanwhile in Hebron …”

My heart dropped. The air felt heavy. Even the rubber gloves weighed on my hands. I pulled them off and tossed them in a wastebasket. I wanted to cry, to speak to Bilal, to bury my face in Mama’s chest.

“Where are you going!” my client demanded.

“That one is done. Just wash out this one’s hair in five minutes,” I said.

“But you haven’t blown out their hair or threaded their eyebrows,” she protested.

“I’m very sorry. That’s my friend on the news. Israel killed him.”

“May he rest in peace. But I already paid you and expect you to be honorable.”

“What the fuck do you know about honor?” I should have thanked her for that moment of sweet anger that kept me from sobbing right there.

“How dare you spew such dirty-mouthed filth in my house and in front of children!” She demanded her money back.

“Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad! I’m keeping my money,” I said, and turned to her daughters. “Girls, you are beautiful without all this. And how you look doesn’t have much to do with beauty anyway.”

My mobile rang as I walked out of her house. “Come to my place. I have something to tell you,” Jehad said.

“I’m on my way. I saw the news.”

We tried ringing Bilal from Jehad’s apartment, but it was no use. The whole village was surely gathered at Ghassan’s home, and the funeral procession would follow early the next day.