In the far distance, he could see black specks approaching. As they drew closer, he saw that they were Arabs riding on camels. The Arabs approached slowly, as in a dream. The heat haze made it look like the camels were running through water, but he knew there was no water in the desert. It was hard to know what was real.

Now he could see the Arabs clearly. They wore brown robes and carried rifles strung with fringes. Nick pulled the Boy Scout knife his dad had given him from his pocket and opened it. He would kill anyone who tried to touch his dad.

The Arab on the lead camel drew to a halt and looked around. His face was dark and wrinkled like a walnut. His curly beard was speckled black and white and he had a big hooked nose, like a bird’s beak. The camel began to sink down on its haunches, rocking back and forth like a boat as it settled to the ground. The Arab slid easily to the ground and stood before Nick.

“Eenglizi?” the Arab asked.

“What?” Nick said.

“You—Eengleesh?” the Arab said, pointing at Nick.

“We’re American,” Nick stammered. Americans were the best, Gramps always said.

The Arab nodded and began to approach Nick’s dad.

“Don’t touch my daddy!” Nick screamed, his voice thin and wild as a bird’s cry. His grip tightened on the knife. The Arab seemed not to have heard and began to kneel by the body. Nick struck.

“Ya Allah!” the Arab cried, jerking his hand away. It dripped with blood from the wound. One of the other Arabs aimed his rifle at Nick.

“La!” the Arab cried, throwing up his wounded hand and jumping into the line of fire.

“The boy showed courage protecting his own, as a man should. Besides, we are Moslems, the khalifah of Allah on earth. A Moslem does not make war on children,” he said in Arabic, then in English to Nick:

“Do not be afraid, little Scorpion,” thereby conferring the nickname that was to stay with the boy. “Those who attacked you were Saar, the wolves of the desert. They are our enemies too. I am Sheikh Zaid ibn Bushir of the Mutayr. All that you see is my dira”—flinging his arm out wide as if to display the desert like a painting. Zaid squatted down and looked levelly at Nick, his eyes soft and very brown.

“Put away your sting, little Scorpion. I am bound by God to protect you,” Zaid said. Nick looked distrustfully at the Arab.

“You won’t hurt my daddy?” he asked tremulously, his chin trembling on the verge of sobbing. Zaid looked at the body.

“No one can hurt your baba any more,” Zaid said.

The two regarded each other for a long moment. Then Nick folded the knife and stuck it in his pocket.

“You are a dhimmi, a Child of the Book?” Zaid asked.