He was ready long before their betrayal. He knew Rafik, Aziz, the Khaled brothers; they’d all stowed on ships and made it to America. He was smarter than any of them. America became the place he would come clean, stay clean, make it clean. The place to be apart from the ones who never tried. The place his brothers were too busy working for the government and marrying girls his father picked to even dream they could get near.

He didn’t blame Hank Bridges. He blamed that knurl in his brain that he couldn’t smooth out or cut through, his circling into thieving over and over and over and over and over. If he was smarter, why this mess? If he could get any woman to fuck him, why no love? Some men couldn’t even get a woman to talk to them. He had nothing to offer, but how they talked to him, how they longed for him, how he wanted them to want him and they did.

There was a girl in the library. He knew what would happen. It always did.

Reasoning had not helped. Parts of him never fit under its tent. Believing, why not try it?

And the ones who have believed, and done deeds of righteousness—We will soon cause them to enter Gardens from beneath which Rivers run, eternally abiding therein forever.

Not real gardens, just the idea of gardens. He could accept that.

Lahouari took a look at Mourad’s bumper. Aziz had driven it over to the Old New England Body Shop, where Lahouari still worked. Aziz wanted to take the Escort home, fixed and hand-buffed, to surprise Mourad.

It was another bristling-with-sun day. Lahouari had trouble concentrating on the bumper. He kept jabbering about how he had arranged “a big revenge” against Kamal.

“Kamal—he has reasons. I do not judge,” Aziz said.

“He will be in the shit,” Lahouari said. He had wheeled under the Escort on a low trolley.

“Can you fix it today?” It was noon. Aziz needed time to vacuum, wash, polish.

“Perfect,” Lahouari said.

“What?” Aziz got on his knees and looked under the Escort. Lahouari’s hands were moving inside the bumper.

“This is good,” Lahouari said. “I fix this quick.”

“Your boss?”

“Is off today.”

“I thank you for this, Lahouari. Many times, I thank you.” Lahouari slid out from under the car. “You can wash here with special things.” Lahouari pointed to a sign that said DETAILING.

Aziz nodded. “Tonight—you, your brothers, come to Brooks Street.”

“Heather is there?”

“She asks for you. You will not believe the changes in Heather.”

“Rafik is—gone—and”—Lahouari stuttered—“a chance for me?”