This was a good opening to broach the conversation we needed to have, but I was afraid. “There’s something I have to tell you,” I began.

“Don’t tell me you’re divorcing me already.”

I smiled awkwardly and spit out the words: “I don’t think I can have sex with you.”

He looked shocked and hurt.

“I mean, not you. Not just you. I don’t know that I can have sex with any man,” I said.

“Do you prefer women?”

“No. I’m just …” I struggled to find the words I had rehearsed. “I don’t know why, Bilal. I’m just damaged.”

His face softened and he pulled me gently toward him. I slipped my arms around his waist and we stayed that way, my head nestled at his neck, the rhythm of his breath lulling me to a sense of home.

“We can be damaged together,” he whispered. “As long as I can hold you like this, I will be a happy man.”

Within mere days of being home, Bilal began to regain weight and color returned to his face. He still found it difficult to walk without a cane.

“How was it to see Mhammad?” he asked me one morning on the terrace.

“I wondered when you were going to bring it up.” I sipped my tea.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Well, for starters, it surprised me that some people thought Mhammad was living in Canada. From the whispers in town, I can’t tell if he’s a hero or a traitor.”

“He’s both. And he’s neither,” he said, cryptic language that made me sigh. “I’m not trying to be obscure,” he assured me. “The truth is, I don’t know who or what my brother is.”

“Then finish the rest of the story you told me before I went back to Amman,” I said.

Later that evening, he did.

Mhammad and Bilal had watched their clothes burn in the barrel on that day so many years ago that set the course for all of our lives. The night, tranquil and beautiful, hid their frightened bodies, and belied their shattered futures. The crackle of flames gave no hint of the inferno to come, as Israel would exact vengeance from all Palestinians for the deaths of the two soldiers in the woods.

Bilal hesitated as he spoke, opening and closing his right fist, trying to control its tremor. “The memory of sinking a knife into a man’s neck is embedded in my hand. Even after my body stopped shaking that night, my hand didn’t. It never really stopped.