Hannah has the stolen tape and the stuff Aunt Randah gave her. But she doesn’t want to argue in public.

“What if I stayed here?” She is thinking of Aunt Randah, her father, her brothers, her grandmothers.

“You should keep the earrings.”

On their way to the parking garage, where Nasser waits for them, they buy chickpeas with vinegar and pickled turnips from a street vendor. The call to prayer sounds and shops’ metal grates start to bang closed, one by one.

“Afternoon prayer.” Summer sucks on a chickpea and taps her plastic spoon against her cheek as they head to the car. “If you think you’re going to have an arranged marriage and hire a driver and teach art at a private school or something—I mean, I guess you could stay. Sounds like a nice tidy life. No bands, though. No movie theaters. No road trips.”

“You’re telling me not to stay.”

“But can you find pickles like these in America?”

On New Year’s Eve, the war is two weeks off. Hannah stays home and draws for the first time in weeks. She puts on her abayah and headscarf, borrows her father’s Polaroid, and takes an instant photo of herself in the entryway mirror. With a charcoal pencil, she copies the photo. She gives herself dark circles under the eyes. A toothless smile, like in the photograph. By midnight, her father and Lamees have been in bed for several hours. Hannah uses the phone in the front room to call Malik.

“Happy new year,” she whispers.

“It’s four in the afternoon. And I thought we broke up.”

“I changed my mind. Please tell me you didn’t listen to me and see other people.”

“I’m worried about you,” he says. “I’m worried about this war.”

“My dad says it’ll be over fast.”

When she falls asleep, Malik is in her dreams.

The war starts on a Thursday at 2:00 a.m. Hannah finds out from her father at breakfast. He’s been working nearly nonstop since the deadline passed on Tuesday.

The cheese and olives Mary prepared smell too strong to eat. Hannah keeps thinking how a lot of the US soldiers who came to fight are her age. Zee has probably been transported to the Eastern Province, maybe Kuwait.

“When the airport reopens, you’re going home,” her father says before heading back to the newspaper offices. He dips his bread into small bowls of honey and cream. “I want you to be safe.”

She’s ready to go, she realizes. She’s not the same person she was when she arrived. She’ll leave her family behind, but take them with her, like a pot holder or a pair of earrings.