“—survived the Holocaust,” I finished her sentence.

Her eyes filled with contempt. “As a matter of fact, they did. And they taught me to always be fair. That’s what I was trying to do here,” she said.

Lena started to translate, but I interrupted. “That’s not what you’re doing here,” I said in English with enough scorn to mask the indignity of being shackled to the wall. The guard ordered us to stop speaking and I was grateful, for it allowed me to have the last word. Such a small sliver of control meant everything—everything—to me.

Later came the whistle signaling that my next meal was being pushed through the slot. But as I approached the door, someone on the other side whispered, “Inside the bread.” I sat down with the tray, tore small pieces of the pita bread, and carefully peered into its pocket, mindful of the ceiling camera. There it was, a tightly folded paper wrapped in plastic. I waited until dark to open it and put it in one of my books, which I pretended to read when light came again.

Stop speaking to reporters. Israel is selling a story that Muslim men abused you your entire life, then forced you to join a terrorist group. They claim Israel saved you, and prison has given you a better life. You’re the only prisoner who gets international visitors. They’re allowed into your cell. That’s unheard of! Think about it. They’re publishing pictures of you in a clean cell with a lot of books to show that Israel is a benevolent nation, even to terrorists. Your family is well. They send their love. We are still fighting to get them a chance to visit. Eat this note.

I didn’t need a signature to know it was from Jumana. This was the first indication I’d had that she was okay. I could barely remember her face, but I missed her. I wished she had written something about Bilal. Some news. Or just his name. Or simply the first letter of his name. B is alive and well. B sends his love. Or just B.

When it was dark again, I put the note in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. I imagined how terrible I must look in those photos in the press. I am not allowed a mirror, but I knew my hair was frizzy without a blow-dryer. It hadn’t yet turned gray as it is now, and I hadn’t stopped caring about such matters. The fuzz over my lip hadn’t been waxed and my eyebrows were bushy. I probably looked exactly how Westerners imagine a terrorist—unkempt, hairy, dark, ugly. But those weren’t the photos that bothered me. It was the ones in the Arab press during my trial, taken in Kuwait all those years ago. I imagined my family seeing them. How much it must have hurt my mother.

But now even that no longer moves me. Nothing can move in confinement, not even the heart.

I didn’t have visitors for a very long time after Lena and the Western woman left. My hair had grown nearly five centimeters when I saw the next human—a guard. She entered the Cube holding a notebook and two mechanical pencils. She could have just slipped them through the door slot, but she chose to enter the Cube, announcing herself over the speaker so that I could lock myself to the wall. I wondered if she was the one who had slipped me the note. She wasn’t allowed to speak, but she smiled, I think, when she saw how excited I was by the delivery on my bed.