“I’m going to try.”

Mysha put her fingers to her cheek, and her lip quivered. “I . . .”

“It’s alright, Mysha. I’m going to speak to some people I know. They will be able to help.”

Her voice cracked a little. “Thank you.”

She reached out and took the girl by the shoulder. “There’s something else. My station pays for stories . . .”

“I don’t want anything,” she interrupted quickly.

“I would feel bad if I didn’t pay you.”

She was about to protest again, but she was stalled by Beatrix’s raised hand. She put the other one into her pocket and took out two fifty-dollar bills. She pressed them into the girl’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get your brother back again.”

“Thank you,” she sniffled, almost pitifully grateful.

Beatrix looked up at the wall opposite her. There were a dozen school achievement medals that had been clipped to the fabric covering, all in the name of Mysha al-Kaysi and all from at least three years ago.

“Those are very impressive,” Beatrix said.

Mysha was busying herself with cleaning the stove. She looked up and looked over to where Beatrix was pointing. She smiled shyly. “It is nothing. Just school.”

“Do you still go?”

“Not any more. I have to look after the house now that my . . .” She started to say “mother,” then “brother,” and then she stopped and looked down at the stove again. “It is alright. I was lucky to be able to go at all. Many of my friends cannot. They cannot read or write.”

“What do you want to do when you’re older?”

Mysha looked at her as if Beatrix was fooling with her. “When I am older? I will be a wife, if Allah is willing.”

“You don’t want to do something else? A career?”

“This is not America, Beatrix. That is not for me. I will be happy to have a husband and a family.”

“And your brother wants to work on the oil field?”

“It is a good paying job. We do not have much. It would help.” She looked reluctant as she said it.

“What do you think?”

“It is dangerous. Many men are injured. Many die. I would worry.”

Beatrix finished the food and then helped to wash the dishes. The girl pulled a box away from the wall and took out blankets and a pillow. She arranged them in the centre of the makeshift room, layering the blankets to soften the rough contours of the bare earth. When she had finished, there were two separate beds. She indicated that Beatrix should lie down.

She did as she was told.

“Good night,” the girl said.

She extinguished the paraffin lamp, and the shack fell dark.

“Good night.”

Beatrix couldn’t sleep.

She was in an unfamiliar place, in an unfriendly country. The silence was intermittent, disturbed by a loud and drunken argument from the next shack along, the misfiring of a car engine and, in the distant desert, the howling of wild dogs.