“Probably the same reason as you. I don’t want to bring a life into a world that will despise her existence, and because … sometimes the thought of having sex makes me want to throw up.”

She turned to me, but I kept my eyes on the task at hand, leaving her to make her own assumptions as to why.

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

TWO WEEKS AFTER the smuggling operation, the card games at our house resumed, the truck had long been returned, and the new sofa, emptied of its secret contents, replaced the old, blackened one in the cleaned-up, fixed-up, repainted salon. We were spent, but proud of what we had done. We worked as a team and remained loyal to one another through the worst of surprises. The trust that evolved from that had weight—an immovable thing, like the hills around us, full of stories they’ll never tell and life they’ll always nurture. Or that’s just how I experienced it.

“The fire actually gave us cover to bring in a new sofa, even though the old one wasn’t worn out,” said Faisal. We could count on him to find something good in misfortune.

Most important, the twins had moved the guns safely underground. Bilal and Ghassan, the only two who knew anything about weapons, still had to inspect the wares. Being watched, they tried not to be together in places other than home and the bakery. The best opportunity to inspect the guns would be during an upcoming local wedding. In the meantime, the most Samer and the twins could offer was: “We counted everything, and it’s all there.”

Finally Bilal and Ghassan met in the underground, as Jumana and I ran interference for people asking about them at the wedding. We stuck with Hajjeh Um Mhammad for a while, but she left early with her sister, who wasn’t feeling well. I did the best I could, but time and again I was pulled to dance and got lost in the music. Thankfully, Jumana kept her wits and eventually called me away. “Girl, if you dance one more time, the bride is going to clobber you. You’re sucking all the air and shine away from her,” she warned. I smiled at the bride, who narrowed her eyes and turned away, the music of Elissa’s “Bitmoun” filling the hall.

“On the bright side, you distracted everyone,” Jumana whispered.

We saw Samer heading toward our table. It was difficult to read him because a kind of jittery apprehension never left him, a sheath of electrical concern, like static that compelled one to always ask, Are you okay?

“Everything okay, Samer?” Jumana asked.

He signaled he couldn’t hear her. The music was loud. Jumana grabbed a chair and yanked him down between us, the three of us huddling. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“They’re not happy,” he said. “They said most of the stuff is useless.”