“You will be better soon,” she said, smoothing his hand.

Go to the market, he wanted to say. Go to the hotel. Go out. “Let me sleep,” he said instead. She kissed his forehead.

His brothers caused the least distress. One night, Aziz was on the couch, his broken arm propped on two pillows. His two older brothers were talking, joking. Then one of them was imitating Mourad’s walk like stilts. Mourad, pretending to read, was offended. Their mother had just cleaned up the kitchen and gone into her room to lie down when the phone rang.

“You have the wrong number,” Aziz could hear his father say in the kitchen. “I am sorry. . . .

“I am sorry,” he said again. “There is no one by the name of Nazzar in this house.

“Who is this?” his father said. “I want to know who this is.” His voice was raised. “I am telling you, you are mistaken.”

The calls continued. Sometimes it was a voice claiming to be Nazzar who wanted to talk to Aziz. So Benane and Sellami had figured him out. They were on their way to kill him. Sometimes it was an unnamed voice wanting to talk to Nazzar. Perhaps Antar had figured Aziz out and he was on his way. Aziz went back and forth, then round again. Perhaps it was only Antar. Perhaps it was only Benane. Or only Sellami.

Aziz told his family he knew no Nazzar. He looked unconcerned. He looked bewildered. He looked impatient. He looked resentful.

“It is you this person wants,” Mourad insisted. “You must know him.”

“It is aggravating,” his father said.

“Just answer the phone, Aziz, and tell whoever to stop,” his mother pleaded.

“Take the phone off the hook,” Aziz said. They did for a few days, but within an hour of putting it back on, the phone rang. It was evening, after dinner, and everyone was there, his sisters and their husbands and granddaughter Asa. His two older brothers were playing dominoes. Mourad looked at Aziz after the first ring and said, “You are hunted.”

His oldest brother, Latif, went to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and in the next instant slammed it down without talking.