“Sabbath is good. Things will be quiet… . No. In the Barmal neighborhood… . I insist. It has to be in Barmal. I have people there… . Enshallah. Salaam. In God’s hands.”

The Nazareth man was taking a private tour that Saturday. Bilal insisted he park the van in Barmal, a Bethlehem neighborhood with a thriving car-theft business. It was close enough to walking tours of the Church of the Nativity, but insular enough that should anyone see a tourist vehicle being emptied of its contents, they’d know to look the other way.

He hung up. I slipped my arms around his waist and pressed my ear to his chest. His heart was pounding as hard as mine. He leaned into me, enveloping me in his arms and shoulders. “I’m glad you came back,” he said, and kissed the top of my head. We had been sleeping under the same roof in separate bedrooms, but I had gone to bed every night imagining him next to me.

I pulled back. “Are you scared?” I asked.

He hesitated, moving slightly closer.

“Yes,” he whispered, closing the space between us. I closed my eyes as our lips found each other. I would like to tell you that I was swept away with passion, but it was not so. The disquiet deep within me, an insecurity or fear so constant I barely knew it was there, arose. As our kiss deepened, became more expressive, thirstier, I was overcome by a desire to weep. No one had ever kissed me with such love, and it occurred to me that happiness can reach such depths that it becomes something akin to grief.

Each of us was up early the next morning, taking our positions. Jumana and I arrived at the checkpoint at nine. On schedule, the tourist van approached in line with oncoming cars on the other side. She and I queued along the footpath, readying ourselves to create a ruckus, as we noticed the van was weighed down more than it should be with only six tourists, all of whom were white Westerners. To our relief, the soldiers waved them through without inspecting more than their passports.

“I guess our work here is done,” Jumana said.

“Damn. I was kinda looking forward to beating your ass in public.” I laughed.

“Girl,” she said, flexing a muscle, “didn’t anyone ever tell you to watch out for the quiet, skinny ones?”

“I’d crush you with one of my ass cheeks before you could do anything with that scrawny muscle.”