“Bilal, may God bestow His favor on him, slaughtered a couple of our chickens and prepared the meal himself. I just watched over it while it baked,” she said.

I hid my surprise. This was the second time in one week that men had cooked for me. “Bless both of your hands that made this delicious meal. You humble me with your kindness,” I said.

“You are one of us, even though you are here to separate from us,” Bilal said kindly.

I looked down, unsure how to respond.

Bilal continued, “We cannot truly know what Mhammad put you through. But we know enough to be ashamed and sorry for how he treated you.”

Mention of Mhammad’s name clearly wounded Hajjeh Um Mhammad. “May God help him find the path of light wherever he is,” she said.

The phone rang. “Probably the neighbors checking up,” Hajjeh

Um Mhammad said.

“Don’t answer, Yumma,” Bilal pleaded. “Let’s have our time with Yaqoot before the busybodies swoop down.”

“You must answer. And don’t refer to our family and friends as busybodies.”

Bilal smiled good-naturedly. “Ha’ek alay, Yumma,” he said, kissing his mother’s hand.

I waited to gather the courage to correct Bilal and finally spoke after a few bites of food. “You can call me Nahr,” I reminded him. “Yaqoot is only on my official documents.” I didn’t mention that I was named after my father’s mistress.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “It’s just that Yaqoot is such a beautiful name too—but I will not make that mistake again.”

“It’s fine.” I smiled. “Sometime I’ll tell you the story behind my having two names. Three, if you count Nanu, which is reserved for Jehad.” Almas was long gone by then.

A day or two into my trip, Bilal invited me to early evening tea on a small hilltop overlooking a stretch of cultivated land and a pasture where some sheep roamed. I thought we would just drive to the spot, but I wore my most comfortable shoes for the occasion anyway—sandals with a midsize heel. Instead, we walked for what felt like miles after we parked the car, and my sensible heels were nonsensical. I wobbled over the terrain as best I could, trying to disguise my discomfort, and Bilal caught me around the waist when I almost fell. He suggested I walk barefoot.

“And get stung by scorpions? No thank you.”

He chuckled. “No scorpions in these parts.”

“Snakes, then,” I retorted. “There must be snakes.”

“Well, yes. Sometimes.” He smiled, then tapped his arm. “Here. At least lean on me if it helps.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He smiled again, raising one eyebrow—he could do that too! “I am.”

“You should have told me my shoes were inappropriate.”

“And miss all this?” He laughed.