We laughed, but without mirth, strained by all that could go wrong in the next few hours. Wadee, Faisal, and Samer had the most dangerous job. They had to retrieve the guns from the van’s secret compartment, pack them into the sofa in the back of a rented truck, drive to the beauty salon, and unload it. Bringing the sofa into Jumana’s salon was the riskiest part, because passersby would surely come to help, as much out of nosiness as generosity, and the weight of the sofa might rouse suspicions, which would surely bring the military at our door. So the twins would have to reject any help, offending would-be helpers and arousing suspicion anyway.

That’s where Jumana and I would come in again. We were to be waiting at the salon to help carry the cushions, each packed with weapons and ammunition. No one would think it odd that women couldn’t carry more than a cushion at a time. We’d worked out every conceivable detail, even ensuring that Jumana’s customers couldn’t help, by putting them in hair foils or under the dryers, forcing them to stay put.

Jumana and I had to cross one checkpoint returning to the salon. We didn’t expect to get held up, but one of the soldiers decided to scrutinize Jumana’s ID. Afraid to lose time, I flirted with the soldier. He was at least a decade my junior, but one could always count on men being distracted by their dicks. The Jewish boy with a big gun allowed us through, smiling, watching my ass jiggle as we walked away.

I grabbed Jumana’s hand like she was my lover and warned, “Don’t look back.”

“You’re my hero.” She clutched my hand. “I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“Bitch, you’re older than me.” We gave humor another try, but it didn’t stop our guts from churning with anxiety. We continued nervously to the salon, about a twenty-minute walk. Jumana loosened her scarf and let it fall with each step until it draped her neck. As we neared the salon, we could see a crowd clogging the street. Jumana grabbed my hand again. We walked a few hurried steps until we realized the crowd was massed around the salon, trying to break the door down. Then we sprinted ahead as the neighborhood children yelled at us, “Hurry, Auntie Jumana! Your shop is burning!”

Pushing through the crowd, we saw smoke foaming out from the door and windows. A siren wailed in the distance, the fire truck parting the crowd with a brain-seizing blast of its horn. We stepped back into the mass of astonished onlookers, clutching each other, watching and listening to the shouting men with the water hose, the hiss and roar of flames, and the black, billowing smoke.