No one jumped in daylight anymore, as Aziz had. Stories were plentiful of how the tankers had too many men on deck, armed, hating, tense. They were not even Algerians, these guards. They were French and undercover, snakes in ship uniforms. It was said if they saw you they shot you. But Rafik disputed this. The natural gas had to be cooled into liquid. It was explosive. Guns would pierce the containers. Aziz thought the containers were bulletproof. Rafik said yes, that could be. They discussed the tankers’ condition, the men who might come, the prospects for hope. Here was a Rafik with a purpose besides scheming, a Rafik who honored their vigils without complaint, no matter the tedium or lack of profit. When Aziz came home from the gas station at nine, Rafik was ready. Aziz had the new pack of cigarettes, Rafik the extra clothes and towels and blankets. They drove to the Everett terminal and waited until midnight, sometimes later. Some weeks no Arzew stowaways showed. One week, three did. Once they saw dawn.

They stayed far from the prayer boys, but in the beginning, at least, they hoped to meet other Algerians. There were young men from all over: Blida, El Harrach, Telagh, Aflou, Keddara, Chlef, Tizi-Ouzou, Saïda, Ain Defla, and more. Rumors ran like thieves. Someone from Bentalha said the prayer boys were wanted. This someone knew another who recognized one of them by his missing finger. A man with a missing forefinger, this one said, had run a knife from the corner of an old man’s mouth, from cheek to ear, deep into the back of the neck to the other ear and the mouth’s other corner. The one without the finger tore the flaps of the old man’s cheeks from his face. His white hair was lathered in his own blood, but they would not finish him off. They watched him die, slowly—while they talked, ate, prayed; yes, they prayed—and made the old man’s sons and daughters and grandchildren witness this at gunpoint.

Rafik scoffed. No matter what story, no matter which teller, no matter the atrocity devised or described, Rafik interrupted every pause with “Show me proof of this.” He told every storyteller, “A big story does not make a big man.” You are with them, one teller accused. Rafik’s voice stayed easy. “I am not one to believe,” he advised. Aziz, eyes down, encouraged peace to his chest, his belly, his eyes, his ears, repeating a word of one kind or another to still himself. “Believers,” Rafik said, “love death. I would rather wonder, my friend, than believe.”