The Israeli military hinted we might be granted a two-hour reprieve from curfew the following day to stock up on food. The announcement was followed by a stern warning that anyone outside at the end of the reprieve would be shot on sight. Bilal and I made bread dough, timing it to rise sufficiently to bake it fresh at the bakery when the curfew was lifted. He ventured into the garden to collect as much as he could to share with friends and family. An announcement came the next day that the reprieve was canceled until further notice.

Fighters in Jenin had heroically resisted Israel’s invasion of the camp, killing dozens of soldiers. But the fighting was over and Israeli soldiers were on the rampage in the camp, exacting vengeance. Bilal turned off the radio. It was dark now, and we didn’t turn on the lights. No one did unless the windows were blacked out. Bullets and missiles, like moths, were attracted to light.

We took the food tray through the darkness to the kitchen. “Leave it,” Bilal said when I started to wipe the dishes (only enough water remained for consumption). He kissed me, lifting me onto the counter as I wrapped my legs around his waist. When our kisses deepened, he pulled back, stroking my cheek. I could see the contours of his face in the moonlight filtering through a window. “Will you dance for me?” he whispered.