So much advice from so many people. It will be a full-time job to find his daughter. It will be expensive. His journalist’s wages at Akhbar al-’Urus, the paper his high school friend Imad started to rival al-Sharqiyah and other bastions of Saudi journalism, are good but not lavish. Like his brothers, he helps support their mother. It was his idea to pay a double share on her rent because he lives with her. His brothers agreed reluctantly, and he has to insist monthly when the rent is due. The building is new, but the gated lift is rickety and smells like stray cats. His sisters sew curtains for the flat on their foot-powered sewing machine. On Fridays, he goes to prayer with his brothers and to the halaqah afterward for cartons of fruits and vegetables. They split up the contents in his mother’s small tiled kitchen, a share for each sibling with a family, a share for Muneer and Mama and Lujayn, the last unmarried sister. His brothers refuse to take his money, insisting on paying for him and the women. Accepting gifts hurts his pride, but he’s not the oldest brother, so his pride can withstand a little pain. He saves his money at the national bank, for a future trip to find his daughter in America.

He starts with the easiest, most logical, most inexpensive step. He calls Fareed and asks to visit on a Thursday evening.

“Of course, my son, you’re always welcome,” Fareed says, as though nothing unusual has happened, as though a hole has not been torn in their family and two people fallen through it. On the phone, he sounds like a radio announcer: in control of his words, on top of the story.

At Fareed’s villa, Muneer is buzzed through the gate. In the courtyard, he leaves the garbage-ripe smells of the street behind. Here, jasmine and gardenia perfume the night. Fareed opens the villa door himself. He is casual, the collar of his thawb unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up. As the two men lower themselves onto cushions in the family room, rather than a formal salon, Muneer feels the scratch of his own starched collar and ghutrah. Fareed settles in next to a shisha, its coals glowing orange, and brings the nozzle to his mouth. He exhales and offers the pipe to Muneer, who gestures no.

There are phrases of greeting people normally pass between them at the start of a conversation: “God protect you and yours.” “How is the family?” “It’s been too long.” “How are the children?” These things go unsaid. Muneer sees no point in stalling. The awkwardness of his topic is unavoidable.

“Have you talked to them?” Saying their names would be painful. Besides, Fareed knows who they are.