They saw he was not only alert, but also actually and finally eating. Aziz looked to the brothers to judge how mad at him they were. They were not, he saw with joy. Lahouari was saying he was sorry. Rafik placed the pot of lamb on the floor and all the plates came down near the table legs. They sat there cross-legged, and the three brothers, whether from weeks in the hold or Aziz’s outburst or both, pushed back tears. “Troubles buried only sometimes sink,” one of them said. Aziz worried; what did that mean? Did they know of his story? But then the oldest, Hamid, put his arm around Aziz and said, “Thanks to God for Rafik. And for you.”

They were knitted to the Three, and the Three to them. Heather tended particularly to Lahouari. It was something of mothering; he was a tadpole. He had bones like straws. He looked like a fourteen-year-old, not his recorded eighteen years. His voice was a man’s but he did not shave. Aziz could tell Lahouari had not yet been with a woman.

Unlike the rest of his family, Lahouari had not made it to college. There was no point by the time his turn came; Algeria was violence and bad stupid jobs. Lahouari told Aziz he had wanted to be an engineer. Now he aimed to be a mechanic. He worked on Heather’s BMW to learn the English words, studying her owner’s manual and an Arabic version Rafik found for him. Heather and Lahouari spent long hours on her car, and as the months went by they carried on in a sign language and then in words of their own creation. Watching them, Aziz found himself rearranging his ideas about Heather. There was room for gentle. She could be patient.

The other two were older: Ali was twenty-one and Hamid twenty-two. They were bigger, in size and attitude, and they had been to college, and then the army, as Aziz and Rafik had. They wanted to tell Aziz stories of their tour, but he would not let them.

“He is ugly.”

“Well . . .”

“Admit, my friend, your brother is ugly.”

Rafik and Aziz were in a lounge at Logan Airport, watching Aziz’s brother from a distance in a cordoned area near Customs. It was late fall, turning into another cold winter. Soon it would be two years since Aziz arrived.

Mourad had a green card. He had checked luggage. He had a one-way ticket on Air France. His aisle seat was next to an empty window seat for the entire eight-hour flight. He had slept comfortably with three pillows and two blankets. He looked disconsolate.

“He does not want to be here,” Aziz said.