What did it say that it had taken Soumeya to see vivid? It did not unveil him as monster, for he had known that months and months past. He thought it was an old story that remorse comes harder when we harm those we know, with names and parts to play in our ambitions and needs. It was comparatively little—in the tangible despicable of his memories—that he carried no instinct for brotherly love. Yet it wrenched him. Try as he might to scoff at the idea, and as deep as his self-loathing reached, still he searched for his own root causes. And one of them was his genius for extenuating circumstances, those razor-dire calculations he had judged necessary to ensure his survival: Antar had signaled distrust, a cohort eyed him funny, he had not openly killed for days, he had refrained from the heinous for too long. His innate talent was for explanations. He saw them in the hold for what they were, footnotes he had doctored to palliate his history. Unasked-for love—what he felt for Soumeya—clarified. It indicted.

He had not torn the arm. He had let it be torn. Yet he didn’t have the nobility to be his own prosecutor. Some men dreamed of such a life story, of stowing home, confessing to family, surrendering to police, saying, I have killed the defenseless, stood by while innocents were maimed. The police could believe, lock him in a cell. They could think he was deranged, bid him back to the street. They could send him to Benane, to be condemned to die. But after all these years, he had to face what frippery this was—the drama of wishing his own death or just punishment. After all, had he not stolen from the ship’s kitchen, not to be discovered but truly to eat? Hadn’t he fought off drowning? Hadn’t he tricked Linda Ricco to save his scorched feet? Hadn’t he feared Ghazi’s motives? And run from Hank Bridges?

The bright dust of being alive could not be shook out of him.

“There is nothing for me here.” Ghazi was outside the library on his cell phone with Dhakir.

“Have you been reading the Qur’an?”

“Living this way—it is no way to live.”

“Go make your prayers. When we get off the phone, I swear you will feel better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t listen when I say come back to Montreal. There are many brothers here.”

“I am tired of them. The same. Always the same.”

“They will show you the way.”

“Let me ask you something.”

“They ask for you. I see them. Where is Ghazi? Ghazi, Ghazi.”

“Answer this question: Muslim killing Muslim. Explain that.”

“I know someone at the embassy.”

“Uh-uh.”

“He can get you a visa over there.”

“No. No caves for me. Look, send the package FedEx. No more Priority Mail.”

“You don’t believe me.”