Jameel swears to God it was Hanadi. “I wouldn’t call you if I wasn’t sure. I know the mother”—he doesn’t say Saeedah’s name throughout this whole conversation—“she was driving. And the girl in the passenger seat was your daughter. I told you. She had your face.”

Jameel admits he hesitated. It was a strain at first to see who drove the other car but he kept looking till he could be sure. His wife, Diane, was at their rented Chrysler’s wheel, they were en route from Hopkins Airport to his mother-in-law’s duplex, and he was jet-lagged. His eyes felt like someone had poured sand into them. He hadn’t gotten any rest so far this summer.

Muneer already knew the story: To everyone’s chagrin—except her younger sister’s—Jameel’s fifteen-year-old, Summer, had flunked one of her religion exams at the end of the school year in Jidda. Which meant she’d needed to retake it and pass to avoid repeating tenth grade. Diane had refused to stay while their daughter studied. She’d gotten on a flight back to the United States with Lulu, the twelve-year-old, leaving Jameel to deal with Summer.

Jameel hadn’t had to tell Muneer why. It was an unspoken agreement between Diane and Jameel: school months in his country, summers in hers. Diane never stayed in Jidda longer than she had to. Muneer had teased her about it once, years ago.

“I miss my mother,” she’d said. “You should understand that.”

He’d swallowed the words he wanted to say to her. How she had her daughters, and he …

Muneer brings the phone close to his lips. “You’re sure it was her?”

He would have preferred Jameel not call him at work—in the past, he’s asked people to relay messages through his brother Bandar. But here is better than home. He doesn’t want Lamees to know about this tip until it’s more certain. She’s not back at the newsroom yet, after the latest baby’s birth.

“One hundred percent,” Jameel says. At the time, he rubbed his eyes, he says. Maybe his grogginess had made him see something that didn’t exist. Maybe Hanadi wasn’t in that car.

But in case, Jameel sat bolt upright and peered around the driver’s seat. And wouldn’t you know, at the stoplight, they came upon the Corolla again.

“We don’t believe in coincidence, right?” Jameel says. “God put me on that road at that time to find her.”

Muneer fishes in his pockets and scans his desk for a misbahah but comes up empty. “Subhan Allah,” he says out loud. Like Jameel, he believes in messages from God, and clearly, God is telling him something.

“Tell me the rest. Where did the car go?”