Jameel drives the second car, his mother-in-law’s white Chevy, to the neighborhood the Corolla had led his family to the week before. On the way, Muneer asks about Jameel’s father, though he’s too distracted to listen to his friend talk.

“My brother is telling him to lease a shop in that big new shopping center. I told my father to do whatever Fahmi says. How is your mother?”

“I didn’t tell her I’m here.”

“God protect her. When you tell her you’ve found Hanadi, God willing, she’ll forgive you for everything you’ve ever done to her.”

When they reach the Tudors of Shaker Heights, they immerse themselves in silent concentration. Muneer feels like he’s at the start of a roller coaster, not knowing what to expect. The green of the trees is calming, a mosaic of light and leaves. But soon it’s clear Jameel can’t quite remember the route. He turns down a street that leads into a park, past a picnic shelter and a duck pond. He grumbles after they’ve gone around the pond twice. This isn’t the same pond. They spend half an hour turning onto cul-de-sacs, and Jameel never apologizes or admits to being lost. Muneer offers to look at the street atlas, but Jameel says, “I forgot the address. But I know I can find it.”

Muneer begins to lose hope they’ll ever find the house. If he grabbed the wheel, could some homing instinct, some biological connection, or God’s will take him to Hanadi? What if he recited the Fatihah?

“Al-hamdu lillahi rabul ‘alameen,” he intones hastily.

“Don’t worry, brother, we’ll be there soon.” Jameel’s voice is level, like he’s calming a patient before drilling a tooth.

Around and around Jameel goes. The houses are so open to the world, their lawns expansive and green despite the heat, and yet they also seem closed off, as though hiding valuables and family secrets from the eyes of the street.

“I don’t know where the hell it is,” Jameel says.

“What the fuck, Jameel. God forgive you. We’ve been in the car an hour.”

“I’ve got to call Diane. Lulu will know the address.”

“Where are we going to find a pay phone?”

“This is it!”

The house is medium-size, with one or two additions. It is smaller than a Shaker Heights mansion and larger than those ubiquitous postwar boxes, and it looks as if it popped out of the ground but didn’t want to rise too tall, like a colony of mushrooms. A thick oak with a broken swing hanging from it leans toward the house. A fence goes halfway round the yard, as though someone had run out of money to finish it.

“Are you sure? Keep on driving. I don’t want Saeedah to see me.”

“Look, no cars in the driveway. She’s probably not here.”