The phone had slipped down the pillow, because Aziz had turned his head and was looking upward, straining to see how he was going to think. He remembered his near breakdown in the Egyptian’s bathroom and how he had willed himself away from it. It was realizing how bad off he was, that was the thing that edged him into—what? But now it was different. Now, he could not tell, by his own eye or his own ears or his own hand or his own nose or his own tongue, what was and what was not. He had only this Rafik, a devious man, and this Heather, who had been, after all, the woman in the robe who kneed Kamal, to bring him news of what had happened and what would happen.

The nurse came in and saw him, throat pulled taut, eyes upward, tears on his face. The phone was about to fall off the bed. She caught it up in her hand and said, “He will call you back.”

“Aziz?”

“I cannot talk now, sir.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Osana Jean-Batiste, RN.”

“You are the nurse?”

“I have got to go,” she said. She moved toward the burn patient, who was lifting his arms from the bed. It was the kind of trance she had seen as a little girl in Haiti; it was the arms that went first, before the whole of a man just went up off into the air, as easy as Lazarus. Levitating, they called it here. She crossed herself and did what her mother had always told her to do, which was to slide her arms around this patient, this bird of a man, and pull him close to her chest. “Peace, child,” she said. “This child is all right. This child is all right.”

Chapter 6

6

His mother’s voice had found him: Tais-toi, mon enfant, tais-toi. Her touch was his. Ça ne fait rien. Ça ne fait rien, she whispered in his ear.

“Mes pieds,” he said, “mes pieds. Il n’y a pas de peau.”

“Vous êtes gravement blessé,” Osana Jean-Batiste said. She did not know this patient spoke French. His arms were back on the blanket. His head lay on her shoulder. The danger had passed. The other burn patients were staring at her, old men with vinegar for blood. She gave them a look. What are you asking me about? it said to them. One closed his eyes. The other turned away—out of respect, she hoped.

She held on some. Not yet right to let go of this one. He had confusion in him; his eyes were still closed.

“Monsieur? Monsieur?” What was his first name? His last name was Ricco.