I showed her the valves on the barrel. “When the pump is on, turn it this way to fill it. When you shut off the pump, turn the valve this way, so the water will drip through the tubes. And this is the neutral position where water doesn’t go in or out. Leave it here when it rains or if the soil looks too wet. The soil has to be well drained.”

“Wow, look at you,” Jumana said. “There’s a peasant in the city girl after all!”

“Stick with me. I’ll teach you a few things,” I said. “Now listen, smartass. You have to monitor carefully. It’s tricky because the almonds need a lot of water but not wet soil. And the olives can’t get too much water because their oil will have a diluted taste. Got it?”

“Yes, boss.”

International media attention grew as Bilal’s health deteriorated. A European delegation was dispatched to negotiate his release when it was leaked that Bilal had been transferred to a military hospital, possibly in critical condition. Two weeks later, more than four months after Bilal’s arrest and nearly ten weeks into his hunger strike, Israel agreed to negotiated terms for his release, and they broadcast his first bite: a spoonful of soup. The phones rang off the hook at the house, the salon, and the bakery.

Ghassan called me at the salon. “Thanks to the Almighty our brother is coming home,” he said. “You should stop by the pastry shop this evening. Join us for dinner.”

It wasn’t so much an invitation as an urgent request, but our calls were monitored, and there was only so much we could say. “Yes, of course, brother. I’m sorry I’ve not been by sooner. Jumana and I will come straight there after closing the salon, enshallah.”

“See you soon. We want to hear about the wedding plans too. Everyone’s looking forward to the honor of celebrating the two of you,” he said, and we hung up.

My wedding was growing in local imagination, even though Bilal and I hadn’t yet actually spoken of it. For the first time since my girlhood in Kuwait, I fantasized about a life of my own making, a story Bilal and I would create on our own terms. I dared to imagine a forever with him. I dared, even, to wish for a child, a life born of love, to be loved hard and always.

I turned to Jumana. “You think Bilal knows of his own impending wedding?”

“He has probably been fantasizing about it from the day your divorce was finalized,” she said.

“He’s not like that.”

“All men are like that,” she said, reminding me of Um Buraq.