Ghazi was his mother’s favorite. The last few years, arthritis that had plagued her as a teenager and then subsided had flared. She was in bed more than not. Her husband, Ghazi’s father, was cold, often gone; it seemed odd to Aziz that Ghazi would have left her side. As they drank and talked longer into the night than usual, Aziz kept waiting to hear Ghazi’s story. But Ghazi was more interested in all of them. Aziz could see that Heather, the Three, Mourad, even Rafik—all were telling Ghazi more than any of them had told the others. There was something in him that loosened them, left them unstrung and breathlessly alive, wanting morning to come so they could tell him more.

Aziz and Ghazi were at Del Fuegos, a Mexican restaurant. Heather had clipped a help-wanted ad and driven them there at lunchtime. Ghazi was wearing pressed jeans and a new sweater. Aziz was wearing a suit. There were two dishwashing jobs open. The owner was a John Hill; there were no Mexicans on the premises. “You two look Mexican,” Hill remarked. “You work hard, I move you up to waiting tables.”

Aziz spoke humbly and respectfully. Ghazi repeated, as they had rehearsed the night before, what to repeat. Hill put them to work on the spot. Their pay was $4.95 an hour. Aziz’s best suit pants were drenched in the first thirty minutes. Ghazi was whistling and dancing like a cartoon bear from the start.

Del Fuegos did a fast business, and when they finally stopped at 1 a.m., they had not moved from their stations beside the industrial dishwashers. Aziz’s arms felt like mashed apples. Ghazi was grim.

“They intend to kill us,” he observed.

“Yes, that is the plan, I believe.”

“But it is good to work.”

They were waiting on the sidewalk for Rafik to come get them. Aziz imagined him at Reach, forgetting.

“It is good,” Aziz agreed, rubbing his hands for warmth.

“You have talked to your mother since I came?” Ghazi asked.

“No. I talked to my father.”

“And he says?”

“He says your father tells him you are dead.”

Ghazi nodded. “I expect this.”

“Ghazi, what happened?” Only two of them. Maybe Ghazi would talk to him.

“You know my father.”

“Yes,” Aziz said, sad. Ghazi’s father and Ghazi were closed to each other.

“He is what he is,” Ghazi said. Aziz waited. He could not read Ghazi’s face. It was a face of one with something behind his back. Ghazi’s father was military intelligence; he might know of Aziz’s tour of duty. So could Ghazi’s brother, some lieutenant colonel, though where, Aziz could not remember. Had they sent Ghazi?

“Your mother?” Aziz finally said.

“Was better.”

“Really? When you left she had improved?”

“Yes. You should speak to your mother. She will say how much better.”

“I will.”

“Ask her to find out for me.”

“That your mother—”