Jenna intuited a certain distance between them, something in their body language. Perhaps they had argued over Josh’s behavior.

“So, you’re a psychologist,” said Cameron. “Yes.”

“Of course!” said Carolyn, suddenly animated. “That’s who you are! Why didn’t I make the connection?”

“Who?” said Jenna, almost afraid to ask.

“You have a book out, don’t you?” Carolyn bubbled on. “I’ve been meaning to buy it. I saw a very nice review of it somewhere. Ancient …”

“Ancient Chains Jenna said with relief. “I’ll bring you a copy if you’d like.” The book had been a sweet surprise. A reworking of her doctoral dissertation, it had been published in a print run of a thousand by a small university press in the Midwest. There it might have died like countless other scholarly monographs except for a brief but very positive notice in the New York Times Book Review. Now it had sold thirty thousand copies, and there was talk of a paperback.

“Chains,” said Cameron. “Sounds kinky.”

“Some of my colleagues agree—too Jungian. The publishers chose the title.” “What’s it about?”

Jenna sighed. “The relationship, in psychological terms, between male dominance mechanisms and female survival strategies in selected cultures over time.”

“Yow!” said Cameron. “Does it come with English subtitles?”

Even Jenna had to laugh. “Sorry. It’s hard to explain in one sentence. Let’s just say it’s about the ways women have adapted to various forms of discrimination and abuse.”

“A hot topic,” said Cameron. “Hot enough to send me back to the liquor cabinet. Get you anything?” He didn’t ask Carolyn.

“No, thank you. Actually, I’d better be going. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”

The Chandlers made conventional protests. Carolyn walked her out. Under a backyard goal, the boys were playing one-on-one, to all appearances best friends. Jenna watched for a moment. She knew nothing about basketball, but it was obvious that Josh’s size was a great advantage, which Karim countered with agility and deception. Where had he learned all those feints and fakes, clever little lies told by the body? She shrugged off a shiver. The quick knife in the night in Alexandria.

Walking home, she glanced sidelong at her son. Love and sadness welled in her; he was growing up so fast! Only yesterday, he had been a baby. Then, in those first years when they were learning a new world together, they had been as close as two people can be. And now—too soon!—she could sense the beginnings of distance between them; already in his face, with its heartbreaking black eye and its newfound secrecy, there was the outline of the man to come. She reached out and tousled his hair. He squirmed away but grinned. It was an American moment, she thought, like a snippet from some TV commercial. In al-Remal, a mother wouldn’t treat a male child so familiarly, not at Karim’s age. But, of course, Karim knew nothing about that. He was an American. She was one herself—or nearly one. My God, she had even become a Red Sox fan. Her English carried hardly a trace of accent, and most of that vaguely Dutch, from Miss Vanderbeek. Karim had an accent, too: pure Boston.