Say, is it possible that we left him alone with Shira on the farm? Why is he always working so late? And what’s he always fiddling around with behind the B&B? Yeah, and how can he even afford that pickup of his? And why won’t he stop asking how Shira is doing? What business is it of his?

I didn’t actually think Nabil had done anything to Shira, but there was something comforting in the thought of having an address to direct our pain.

Together, Nelly and I had come to the conclusion that something about his big body was a threat. She wouldn’t stop saying that we were smart never to have asked him in for coffee. At first she stated repeatedly that our suspicions had nothing to do with him being a Bedouin, but then she stopped. Said that the whole situation with Shira left her too tired to deal with it, but if she had any energy she would have told him long ago to leave. That living with all the question marks surrounding him was simply impossible. Nelly didn’t ask for anything explicitly. Didn’t even hint, but I understood it fell to me to take care of it.

Three or four days after Shira was hospitalized, after snatching a few hours of sleep on the farm, I headed back to the hospital so Nelly could go to work. On my way out of the B&B I saw Nabil. He was sitting by his pickup, pouring himself coffee from his orange thermos. He took out half a pita with hummus wrapped in tinfoil and waved at me. I thought I’d put off the conversation for another day, but he gestured me over, leaving me little choice.

“Sabah al khair,” he said, and quickly poured coffee into another small glass. “Tafaddal, ya Ofer, tafaddal.”

I told him I didn’t want any. “Haven’t started working yet?” I asked, trying to mimic the psychologist’s disapproving tone.

“Two hours ago,” he replied. “Sugar?”

Again, I said I didn’t want coffee.

“That’s a shame, it’s good for the soul,” he said. “Tell me, how’s your little girl?”

I informed him there was no improvement. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. Nabil put his hand on his wide chest, his eyes welling up.

“Wallah, what a tragedy,” he said in a strangled voice. “Why did this happen to us, why?” he exclaimed, trying to comfort me, which only drove me crazy. With a single word—us—he had appropriated my only child. I couldn’t stand the thought that just like that, from a few physical gestures and even fewer words, he had expressed everything I wanted to feel but couldn’t.

“If you want me to come to the hospital at night to help out, just say the—”