It was surreal. A nightmare. “Nothing. Nothing but an explanation,” she demanded, mustering up a moment of bravado.

“Of course,” the man said politely. “Someone will be along directly. But I’m only the steward. Won’t you let me bring you some refreshment?” “Yes, all right. A Perrier.”

“Yes, madam.”

When he brought the bottle, she drained it almost greedily. Stress. Thirst.

Should keep water handy in the office for my patients. Never thought of it before.

The pitch of the engines changed, and she felt motion. Fasten seat belt, she thought, must fasten seat belt. Her head was very heavy, her eyes leaden. The steward was hovering, watching, concerned.

And now suddenly it was clear—so clear she almost laughed at herself for having ever imagined that she could run, that she could have freedom, life, love. As if in a dream, she could picture her husband, picture Ali, reaching out for her across the years. Ah, Ali, with his arms a billion dollars long, and now they’d caught her, and she was going home to die.

Just before sleep, two faces swam in the darkness before her eyes: Karim.

And Brad.

Part One

Part

One

1. Amira Babir

Amira Badir

Al-Remal (“The Sand”), late 1960s

Even against the molten noonday sun, al-Masagin prison loomed dark and forbidding, its massive iron gates reaching skyward. A second look would reveal a jagged dent in the right gate a few feet from the ground.

It had been there for as long as most people could remember.

According to stories Amira had heard, it had been made by a young woman whose husband had been imprisoned for life. Maddened by grief, or so the old village women said, the wife got behind the wheel of her husband’s car (an act forbidden by law), drove it to the prison—and crashed into the gates. The guards had opened fire, and the young woman was granted the speedy entrance to paradise she craved, there to await her husband.

It was a romantic story, a testament to the power of love, and thirteen-year- old Amira Badir believed every word. Love made people do strange and forbid- den things.

Now, she waited as Um Salih, the village midwife, rang the heavy brass bell in front of the prison. It made an oddly melodic sound for so somber a place.

A moment later, as if he had been waiting for the summons, a khaki-clad guard appeared. The gate swung open, revealing the dark maw of al-Masagin. The guard beckoned Um Salih to enter. Amira followed close behind her. The cheap flowered rayon dress peeping from beneath her black abeyya rubbed coarsely against her skin; the crude leather sandals chafed her feet.