After eating, a veiled woman served thick coffee in a copper pot with a long curved spout and disappeared behind a woven curtain. Then they sat and listened to old Muhammed recite from the Koran from memory.

Nick sat on the woven rug with his legs stuck out straight in front of him. He looked around the tent. From the outside the tent was made of plain black cloth, but inside it was hung with colorful woven rugs, the tent poles festooned with brightly dyed woven hangings. Behind one of the rugs he could hear the clatter and murmur of the women as they cleaned the dishes. The sound of the wind outside was woven into the drone of Muhammed’s recitation, as much a part of the saying as the words themselves. The tent ropes creaked in the night. It sounded like a boat in the middle of the sea.

By the noonday brightness, and by the night

when it darkens, thy Lord hath not forsaken

thee, neither hath He been displeased.

Surely the future shall be better for thee

than the past; and in the end He shall be

bounteous to thee, and thou shalt be satisfied.

Did He not find thee an orphan, and give

thee a home; erring, and guided thee;

needy, and enriched thee?

Youssef translated the words for Nick in a whisper. The stuff about the orphan was about him, Nick thought, and remembered his dad.

“And the vein, habibi. Tell us of the vein,” Zaid said to Muhammed. The old man raised his eyes soulfully to the top of the tent and recited:

Is He not closer than the vein of thy neck?

Thou needest not raise thy voice, for

He knoweth the secret whisper, and

what is yet more hidden …

He knows what is in the land and in the sea;

no leaf falleth but He knoweth it; nor

is there a grain in the darkness under

the earth, nor a thing, green or sere

but it is recorded.

Youssef noticed the way Nick was sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him, and tapped his legs sharply.

“To show a man the soles of your feet is to insult him,” Youssef whispered. He showed Nick how to sit cross-legged. Nick frowned. There was a lot to learn.

Directly across from him, a teenager with a thin scraggly moustache and a cast in one eye was staring at Nick, his eyes narrowed. His lips were thin and tight as a knife edge.

“Who’s that?” Nick asked.

“That is Bandar, son of my father’s younger half-brother, Faraj. You should not have pointed your feet at him. Now he is your enemy,” Youssef whispered.

“I didn’t mean it,” Nick whispered back, a lump in his throat.

“It’s too late. You must remember, you are not alone. If you bring dishonor on yourself, you also dishonor your family and your entire tribe,” Youssef said.

“Who is my tribe?”