“I wondered, though, why you did not wear the leather jacket. Or the Adidas. By the time I noticed, we were in the alley. All I could think was you were planning to put a jacket on later, but that was risky.”

Aziz told himself to go slowly. He took a sip of his whiskey.

“Ice would be good.”

“Sure.”

Aziz went for a leisurely tone as he shook the cubes in his glass, to which Sellami had added more whiskey. He was going to yawn for added effect but couldn’t pull it off. He was drawn tight. “Antar believed I was—different.” Another sip. “From God.” He put his glass down. “It would not have been like me to take the stolen jacket and shoes. It would have been against his thinking of me.”

“Kill, yes. Steal, no.”

“Something like that.”

“The fuck is insane.”

“He is.”

Their killing went unmentioned. It was for them to kill in the service of killing one who killed others. They helped Antar kill. They killed for Antar. To create the illusion that they were with Antar. But why not just kill Antar? What had the killing and waiting been for? Was this something he could ask Sellami? Maybe he was wondering the same thing. Aziz could feel the speed of his own bloodstream; it was almost as if it were motorized. The muscles around his left eye had been twitching since the ride in the Expedition. He rubbed his eye with his free hand. Sellami refilled Aziz’s glass. He must remember not to drink all of it.

Sellami leaned his elbows on his knees. His face was closer.

“There were times you were so good, I thought you had gone over.”

Aziz had to drink another sip. He tried to keep it small, but when he put the glass down it was empty. He looked out into the garden and found himself saying, “We sleep in lice and Benane gets this.”

The moment he said it, he realized he should not have. There was silence. He kept staring into the garden. More silence. He would not be the one to say the first next thing. There was no rescue he could imagine from his stupidity.

“Our day will come,” Sellami finally said. “There is plenty for us coming.”

Aziz let out a breath without thinking. It had been okay. He shook his head and tried to clear his throat. “I am tired,” he said, hoping to end this talk. He needed Sellami gone.

Sellami said nothing. He went to the cart again. Aziz heard him pouring the vodka, getting the ice.

“You worry me,” he said to Aziz.

“I am tired,” Aziz said again.

“Did you kill Ahmed?”

Aziz paused. “No.”

“Antar thought you did.”

“He thought many things.”

“There were others too.”

“Others?”

“You killed.”

“We all did.”

“Ahmed—he was one of us,” Sellami said.

Aziz could not risk another sentence. He sat there, iron.