“No, she sent an email from New York.” Arzeen hands him the envelope. “I printed it out for you.”

“New York?” he asks, taking the envelope.

“Well, she’s based in Cairo. She’s a photojournalist for a start-up news organization called Aljazohra or something like that. I can never get it right.”

Ashif can see Shafina in her Annie Lennox T-shirt, a short skirt, and army boots, walking the desert with a group of women in hijab, a massive camera around her neck. He laughs out loud.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just impressive. But then, Shafina’s always been impressive.”

Arzeen furrows her brows as if she finds his response confusing. “We’re so worried about her, but if we say anything to her she quotes people like Prince to us as if she’s quoting the Imam’s firmans. Strong spirits transcend rules. The girl’s crazy is all I can tell you.”

Shafina’s words come rushing back to him. “We all find our own way to the divine. My religion just happens to be music and poetry.”

“She’s in New York right now covering that World Trade Center bombing trial. She’s always putting herself in precarious situations,” Arzeen says.

Ashif imagines Shafina with that massive volume of Rumi in hand, ready to thump any man who dares touch her.

“But Mom and Dad are hopeful, we all are, that she’ll tire herself out and come back home. Settle down and have a normal life, you know? I mean, how long can you live like a nomad, right? She has to grow up sometime.” Arzeen shakes her head disdainfully. “I have no idea what happened with you guys, Ash, but I don’t blame you. No one does. We all know what a handful she is.” Arzeen stops herself, takes his hand in hers. “Sorry, Ash. You’ve got so much on your mind and here I am going on about nothing.”

“No, it’s okay. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear about Shafina. It’s just that I need to go.”

“Of course.” She reaches up on her toes and kisses him goodbye. “Please call me or Al-Karim if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay, thanks. And thanks for this, too.” He waves the envelope in the air, then tucks it into his jacket pocket.

A burst of cold air hits him as he steps through the hospital’s revolving doors. He doesn’t bother to button up his winter jacket or put on his gloves. He’s relieved to be out of the hospital. It’s not even noon and it feels as if it’s the end of the day. He takes a deep breath and crosses the road to the empty taxi stand where he sets his briefcase down and reviews the police report. On the second page of the report is a map with an X where his father’s car was found and another X where the body was located. The third page: a release form with the insurance company’s details and a business card for the car compound.