From the day they met, Antar had not only believed that Aziz was Nazzar, he had also given Aziz his trust. He suspected Aziz was a messenger from God. Antar kept him by his side almost always. But over the months, Antar had begun to fear that somehow Aziz would be lost, that the government’s hyenas would divine the necessity of Aziz and kill him. As killing was the routine of their nights and planning to kill the routine of their days, killing was the only thing Antar could imagine: as a remedy, a dread, a desire, or a respite. It was all there would be and all that had been, and he began to think it might be better to kill Aziz himself rather than suffering when others took away from him what he had to have most.

Antar was thinking of this after midday on his hammock. He wore the same nomad headdress he wore the day Aziz met him. His feet had new wounds—it had been six months—but the new wounds were, like the old ones, undressed and rank.

Below him, Aziz was bent into sleep on the ground. The day’s windless heat amplified sound. An irregular fluttering had awakened Antar. He lay there for some time, listening. He turned to face the others, keeping his eyes closed. It sounded like water along a gutter. But that was impossible. He looked. The bearded one, Sellami, and four others were huddled over the noise.

“Brother,” Antar said.

Aziz moved on the ground. Eventually he stood up. “I am here,” he said.

“Go find what they are saying,” he said, motioning to the men grouped by Sellami.

Everyone knew that Aziz was Antar’s spy, but Aziz had learned the stance to take with Sellami and his men. He would explain Antar’s curiosity. He would ask them what they wished Antar to think. He would then relay their words with any shading needed to make it acceptable to Antar. Antar required such mediation. A few bowed to him, but they were teenagers. Aziz sensed that Sellami, an old Marxist and now a careerist in killing, put up with him.