“I am your friend,” Saleh agreed.

Elias reached for a shelf of weaponry, then hesitated.

“It is best not to,” he said. “They are touchy, these people.”

“What people?” Saleh said.

Elias shrugged. “Websters,” he said.

“Websters?” Elias said. He had no idea what a Webster was. It was a very odd word. It wasn’t Arabic.

“Hermits,” Elias said. “Come on.”

They walked away from the caravanserai and somehow, Saleh realized, he did feel better. It felt good to be apart from the people he had been obliged to share every moment with these past weeks, to just be alone, almost free. It was only a respite, but it was also a reminder. Things changed. Journeys ended.

Beyond the oasis the desert resumed. They walked down a dry wadi. The cliffs rose on both sides. As he walked Saleh felt they were being watched. Somewhere in the distance he heard an eerie howl. It rose again, was joined by others.

Jackals. In the Sinai they were more wolf than jackal. Their cries echoed through the wadi. Elias walked quickly but with confidence. Saleh admired the other boy. Elias was so certain in who he was, where he belonged. Saleh didn’t know who he was anymore. He belonged nowhere.

They came to the end of the wadi and the first of the jackals padded into view. It stood and regarded them with a curious expression.

“We’re here for the Webster,” Elias told it.

“Webster . . . home,” the jackal said.

Saleh had never heard a jackal speak before. He didn’t know they could do that. The jackal regarded him with its big bright eyes.

“What?” the jackal said.

“Nothing,” Saleh said.

The jackal turned round. They followed it down the slope.

There was a house at the bottom, nestled in a small dry valley. It had a white picket fence and a roof of red tiles. A patch of grass grew over the fence, watered by drip irrigation lines. The house had a chimney, and a white door, and on the white door, in big black letters, it said, Webster.

Saleh thought this was a strange thing to find in the middle of the desert. As they approached the house the door opened and a small, stooped man stepped out. He stood on the doorstep and blinked at them.

“This is close enough,” he said. “Please.”

He had a high, reedy voice.

“Guests,” the jackal said.

“Very good,” the man—the Webster—said.

More jackals appeared. They came and crouched in the sand and watched the visitors.

“We are with the caravan,” Elias said.

“I know,” the Webster said. “I saw you.”

He pointed at Saleh. “He is not with you.”

“He is a Bedouin,” Elias said. “He is travelling with us a while.”

“Which tribe?” the Webster said.

“The Abu-Ala of the Al-Tirabin,” Saleh said.

“Abu-Ala?” the Webster said. “I had dealings with your tribe before. You are from the Ghost Coast?”