I opened the door and the store clerk’s eyes darted first to Ghost, then to my lowered gun and finally to me. No shock or surprise registered on his face.

“I am Jamsheed Mustapha,” he said.

I didn’t give my name, and he didn’t ask.

Jamsheed was about fifty but he wasn’t carrying it well. His posture was bad and his face was deeply lined. Stress lines, not laugh lines. “The store is locked,” he said, “and I’ve engaged the jammers. No one is listening and no one knows you’re here.”

“Works for me,” I said as I eased the hammer down on the pistol and returned it to my waistband. Jamsheed backed away to allow me to step outside. Ghost remained right where he was, cued to do so by a small finger signal I gave him. He would watch and wait and stay alert until I signaled him to stand down.

“As-salāmu ‘alaykum,” I said.

“Wa-laikum as-salâm,” said Jamsheed and offered me his hand. We shook. He had frail bones but managed to give a firm shake. He did a second, longer appraisal, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, bloodstains, my battered face, the works.

“You are hurt? I have a first aid kit in my apartment. We’ll get you cleaned up. I have clothes, too. There will be some in your size.” He paused. “Have you spoken to the Mujtahid?”

I nodded. Mujtahid was the Arabic word for “scholar,” but it was also one of the many code names for Mr. Church. I relaxed even more at that name and gave the stand-down signal to Ghost, who immediately flopped down and appeared to lapse into a canine coma. Apparently he was faking his combat readiness.

“Is there something wrong with your dog?” asked Jamsheed.

I explained about the Taser and the net. Jamsheed asked me to wait, and he went into the store and came back with a plastic bowl, two bottles of water, and a bag of high-protein dog biscuits. He handed everything to me. It was clear that he knew enough about military-trained dogs to not try to give the food and water to Ghost directly. I thanked him. Jamsheed earned a whole lot of points from me for that kindness. I knelt and emptied one bottle into the bowl, tore open the bag of biscuits, and laid six of them in a row. Ghost pried open an eye, flexed his nostrils, and wagged his tail. He got shakily to his feet and set-to with a will, lapping up the water and then suddenly going hog wild on the biscuits, his usual daintiness forgotten for the moment.

“Are the police looking for you?” asked Jamsheed.

I shook my head. “They’re looking for someone, but no one has my description.”

“That simplifies this. You look like you could use some food and drink as well, my friend.”