He’s from Kansas City, his parents from San Juan. She’s never been to either place. He doesn’t ask how long she’s been in Jidda.

“Girlfriend?” she asks.

“Never.”

He has a habit of winking when he says something jokey or sarcastic. He holds this wink for a few long seconds. She almost reaches to his forehead to stroke his crooked eyebrows.

“How does she feel about you being here? The war.” The word war feels as strange as father in her mouth.

“It’s not a war yet. Not too happy, I guess.”

The kiss that comes next tastes as surprising and unsurprising as spiked punch. A little too boozy. A little too sweet. She likes it the way she likes spiked punch: with a nagging sense she may later regret the sips she’s taken. She pushes the thought of Malik to the borders of her mind. This is an innocent kiss, and Malik is so far away, and Zee isn’t looking for anything serious, and he is another solid thing to grab onto. Otherwise, she could imagine herself floating out to sea.

The rest of the week, Hannah reads and writes and sketches. Watches bootleg videos of movies with the sex scenes and the kisses excised by government censors. Sometimes the picture freezes but the audio continues. Smooching noises, sighs. She thinks about Zee when that happens and also whenever an air-raid test siren blares. She writes Malik about the test sirens, the beach house, her aunt, the feeling that everyone is on edge waiting for the war to start but also that life is incredibly normal, where normal means boring.

Certain things, she doesn’t mention.

Late in the week, she realizes she’s double-booked herself. At the end of the beach party, she promised to meet Zee on the Corniche the same evening she is supposed to visit Auntie Randah.

She phones Summer to ask what to do, speaking as quietly as she can in the bedroom. Summer advises to have the rendezvous first.

“No one shows up on time for anything here. Your aunt won’t notice you’re late. You can borrow Nasser.”

But that night Summer calls to say Nasser has to take her mother shopping. Hannah has already told Auntie Randah not to send her driver.

Hannah’s seen yellow taxis pass by on the wide boulevard two blocks from her dad’s apartment. While her father and Lamees are performing sunset prayer, she tells Mary she’s leaving for her aunt’s house. At the bottom of the stairs, in the dark entryway with tinted-glass doors, she turns, thinking she’s forgotten her keys. But here they are in her jeans pocket, and there is Fadi, holding onto the balustrade.

“Bye, Fadi. Go back. Yalla,” she says, though she knows he doesn’t understand.

Taking him with her would be a terrible idea. She would never. She’s tempted, though. Having company is nice.