They used to call any Algerian in Boston brother. In this new time, they were only friend. Soon enough, the ground near the harbor on Fridays became as riven as the home country. Here, Aziz trusted only those from his hometown. He or Rafik knew the families, knew boys they grew up with, knew someone who knew someone. But what did Aziz know of men from Chlef, Blida, El Harrach? Men from these places could be anyone or anything. It became too much work to separate the killers from the killed or the relatives of the killers from the relatives of the killed. Stories had to be remembered and details of maimings compared—names, dates, places pieced into a coherence. That, at least, was what he told Rafik.

Arzew produced stowaways, but some who were said to be coming never seemed to arrive. They learned from Rafik’s father that three brothers would come at once. Risky, Aziz thought. Stupid, Rafik said. They waited months for them. The timing was wrong. They feared a neighbor’s tattle. They heard of traps. The Three became part of Brooks Street talk: “I’ll get that money back from you when the Three come”; “She’ll fall for him when the Three come.”

So on the Friday when the Three came sodden up out of the harbor, Aziz was giddy. He called Rafik at Brooks Street and babbled about the feasting that must be had, the food to be started, the bedding arranged. Rafik cooked, and cooked more. The kitchen counters were squeezed full of bowls and bags and jars and cartons. While he worked, Heather laid out blankets and pillows on the living room floor. By each, she arranged a flashlight, an orange, and cookies wrapped in a paper towel. Aziz was assigned the shower. Now he was the Egyptian. He showed them how the hot water worked. He helped find them shirts and pants that fit. He saw in their faces his previous self, and he knew Rafik saw his own.

The Three were younger than Aziz and Rafik; they had barely known them in Arzew. Aziz and Rafik had grown up with their older brothers; an older sister had been Aziz’s first crush. Like her, the youngest brother was serious. He was slight, so thin that Aziz worried the rich food might sicken him. He watched how he picked at it and how worry shaped his movements.

It was amazing that they had made it together. Rafik asked them, How, how had they done this great thing? Heather smiled and said, “They’re strong, I know that much.” But as she was saying these words, Aziz read in their faces such tremors that he blurted, “Tell me of your sister.”