“Yes,” he said, and he stretched out on the bed beside me, on top of the comforter, just as he was, in his jacket and shoes. He leaned his head back against the wall. Then he drew the novel from his pocket and began to read with deep concentration and attention. I cried as I watched him, literally drowning in gratitude and feeling guilty for having treated him with so much cruelty and so much meanness instead of searching for extenuating circumstances, or trying to understand his situation and the ugly cycle of war and its vicious effects upon people.

As though reading my thoughts, Luqman turned and said, “How is it that you’re not afraid of me when you’ve treated me so badly, really loaded me down with every sort of filthy evil you could imagine? A prince of war who specializes in planting mines, who’s best friends with a sniper and a torturer. And when the war was over, you turned me into a womanizer, an exploiter of women, making them spend their money on me! Admit it, N, you never gave me a chance.”

“You people didn’t give us a chance, either.”

“We people?”

“Yes. You weren’t alone, Luqman. There were so many of you.”

“Don’t lump me in with the others. Just let me go to Paris and meet up with my girlfriend, Shireen. When that happens, I’ll change. You’ll see.”

“Even innocent Shireen, whom you claim is your girlfriend—you laugh at her too. Killers don’t change, Luqman. You know that.”

“But I’m your protagonist, the hero of your novel!”

“Yes, you’re my protagonist.”

“Tell me: Do you plan on killing me?”

Sleep weighed heavily on my eyes, and I left his question hanging in the air. How could the thought of killing occur to him, when he had not yet reached the end of the novel? I heard him turning the pages. If only he could realize that true fear is meeting a killer whom you kill, only for him to return, forcing you to kill him again …

Sleep dragged me under.