The oldest brother, Fouad, drags her outside to make her watch him ride his bike around and around the courtyard. He knows “On your mark, go!” in English. They go down in the evening, when it’s not too hot, and the air smells like flowers she can’t name.

Hannah didn’t think too much about Kuwait or Iraq or Operation Desert Shield the day Malik drove her to JFK in New York because her father had neglected to buy her a connecting ticket and she couldn’t afford it. Malik waited until they parked in the garage to start freaking out about the war, telling her she was crazy to board the plane. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t wait until next summer, when the war might be over.

“If you go, I’ll lose you,” he said as he pulled her luggage out of the trunk. “Why can’t your dad visit you here?”

“I’m going to Jidda, not Kuwait City.”

“Maybe you’ll stay there. Maybe your dad won’t let you leave.”

“I’m an adult. I can do what I want. I’m an American citizen. Although my mom would kill me if she knew what I was doing.” Hannah stood on tiptoe, put her arms around Malik’s shoulders, and kissed him. “Come with me.”

Of course she didn’t mean it, standing there with the ticket her father had bought her. Except, she did mean it. She wanted to fold Malik up like a letter and carry him in her back pocket.

“Your relatives will love that. A boyfriend. A black, American, Christian boyfriend.”

“You don’t know they’d say that.”

They had walked to the Saudia Airlines counter. Women in black robes and scarves sat near the windows. At their feet were suitcases several small children could fit into, and in their arms they held expertly swaddled babies with thick, Muppet-y black hair. Their older children climbed on the luggage.

Hannah decided not to kiss Malik again, not in front of these conservative, likely disapproving-of-public-affection-and-dating women. She felt as though she were already in another country. Malik’s last words to her were, “Write me, OK?”

On the airplane, with stale air hissing down at her, she started the letter. It has grown over the days into a fat stack of pages. She doesn’t know how to transport herself to a post office, and she doesn’t want to hand her father an envelope with a man’s name on it. So she keeps the letter in her purse, next to the FYC tape.