“Liar. We already did that,” I said, hugging her. “You came because you love me. Admit it, you old bat.”

There had been times when Mama tried to forbid me to see Um Buraq, believing she was a bad influence. But now she embraced her and thanked her for helping us get out of the country.

While Mama cooked up a breakfast to start us on our journey, Um Buraq and I made one last run to an ATM with Abu Moathe’s card. “I’m a little scared that this might be the day we get caught,” I said.

“How are we going to get caught? It’s four in the morning,” Um Buraq said. She had a point. “Plus, it’s a savings account. So he’s obviously not checking it regularly. I’m sure he has another card for his daily account.” By that point, we had withdrawn nearly 12,000 dinars, which we split evenly between us. The account still had a balance of a little over 9,860 dinars.

At last it was time to go. Our neighbors waited in three taxis as the five of us squeezed into Um Buraq’s Lincoln Continental. Mama asked Um Buraq how she’d gotten all those dings and scratches on her car. “People in this country can’t drive,” Um Buraq explained, and we set off.

Ajay had mostly been the one who drove her car. In the short time since he had left, she had managed to crash into sidewalks, a streetlight pole, and the side of a building. She was so tiny, she had to crane her neck to see over the steering wheel and swerved in and out of lanes.

Jehad didn’t say much, but Um Buraq went on apologizing for what the police had done to him. She said Kuwait would suffer a loss for not embracing a young man as smart and passionate as him. To spare Jehad, I changed the subject by asking about Deepa and Ajay.

“I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!” she exclaimed, bumping the car into the sidewalk, jolting us all. “Deepa bought a house!”

“Stop!” Sitti Wasfiyeh yelled. “Stop the car!”

Um Buraq slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. “Bismillah!” she yelled. “What’s wrong, Hajjeh?”

Our neighbors in the taxi behind us also slammed their brakes, almost ramming into us.

“I want to sit in the backseat,” my grandmother demanded. “I didn’t survive four wars just to die in a car accident. Help me out of here!” she ordered, opening the door.