The Nazareth man worked for a bus company that took tourists to biblical sites in the West Bank. His freelance work with small, independent groups was more lucrative, not only for the tips, but because the company’s van had secret compartments, which he used to transport dope. The Nazareth tour guide would simply text when and where the car was parked, and someone with an extra set of keys would retrieve the hidden contents while he walked around with his tourist clients. Samer explained that on his next freelance tour gig, the van’s secret compartments would transport our guns instead of drugs.

“You’re trusting a drug dealer?” I asked, incredulous.

“Technically, a drug smuggler,” Faisal said. “But no, the Russians are trusting him.” By then Wadee had joined us and completed his brother’s thought: “He’s their guy.”

“If the Russians had an easy way in, why did they wait this long to tell us?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Bilal admitted. “My guess is that they wanted to make sure we weren’t working with the Israeli police or the Palestinian Authority. But most likely they don’t want us to know how they smuggle drugs into Palestinian neighborhoods. They don’t want us to spoil their business.”

“How do you know they’re not undercover units?”

“I don’t.” Bilal looked at me hard, a reminder that this was no game. I swallowed his stare, letting it germinate resolve inside me too.

Ghassan added, “We have lookouts along the way to alert us if it’s a setup.”

“What’s my job?” I asked.

“If the van is stopped and searched at the checkpoint, you and Jumana need to create a diversion,” Ghassan said, and Jumana added, “We’ll fight over a man.”

“Prepare to have your ass kicked. I’m scrappy,” I said, amusing the others. I felt their sincerity. This time around, I wasn’t an outsider but a comrade, friend, sister. I thought of Um Buraq and Sabah, the only other friends I had managed to accumulate in three decades of life.

“Nahr?” Jumana touched my hand gently. “You look sad,” she whispered.

I squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’m content,” I said. The sun was an orange half circle sinking into the land. Samer went inside to set up the table for a card game.

It was nearly ten on a Friday night, three weeks later, when the computer phone beeped. Auntie Um Mhammad wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed after dinner. Bilal and I were cleaning the dishes, craving something sweet, debating whether it was worth it to make an ice cream run. The Nazareth tour guide put an end to those deliberations. Bilal picked up the receiver with wet hands as I listened to his side of the conversation.