A child’s high-pitched voice said, “Looks like your brothers have to do all that work over again.” We both turned to the little girl, then to each other, exchanging worried glances. What if the underground is discovered? What are Samer and the twins to do now? What of Bilal and Ghassan?

I had a vision of us all being tortured in Israeli prisons, the entire neighborhood razed and taken over by settlers, excavated as yet another Disneyland Jewish archaeology site, the city renamed, its natives ghettoized somewhere else. I felt nauseated.

My mobile phone rang and I flipped it open. “Bilal!”

“Habibti, are you and Jumana okay?”

“We’re fine. But the salon—”

“We heard. Ghassan and I are five minutes away. Stay calm. It’s all under control.”

When the fire truck left and we stood in the charred, drenched salon, Jumana had a meltdown, screaming at everyone to get out. Her hair dryers, Formica counters, and plastic chairs had melted into abstract shapes; her potted plants were blackened and limp; and the ceiling fan hung precariously by a few wires, water dripping from its blades.

“I sold part of my father’s farm to create this business. It’s all over. They’re going to kill us now and take it all,” she said to no one, broken glass crackling under her step. I peered into the bathroom. The walls and fixtures, including the cabinet behind the toilet, were blackened but not burned. She slid down with her back against the wall, hugged her knees, and began to sob. I kneeled close to her, worried what was taking Bilal and Ghassan so long.

“Habibti, you have to pull it together. We will find a way to fix up the place, but right now—”

“I’m not crying over the salon. I have no way to get in touch with Faisal and Wadee. I have no idea what happened to them. There’s no one to call, no place to look without putting them at more risk.” She looked into my eyes. “What have we done?”

“Stop it!” I grabbed and squared her shoulders and said with as much authority as I could collect, keeping my voice low even though she had cleared people out, “Bilal and Ghassan should have been here half an hour ago. For all we know, all the men have been rounded up and soldiers will be here for us soon.”

She opened her eyes wider, as if awoken from a bad dream. “What do we do? Should we go underground?”

“No. People will see,” I said. “I must go take Auntie Hajjeh Um Mhammad to her sister’s house, in case soldiers are on their way to her house. Then you and I can—”