“I don’t know,” Nick shrugged.

Zaid pondered, as though considering a knotty problem. Finally, he shook his head and stood up.

“Where is your mama?”

“She died and went to heaven,” Nick said, eager to answer a question he understood. Zaid smiled with approval. A child who believed in heaven was obviously not a pagan.

“You are—orphan,” Zaid said, pointing at Nick.

“I don’t know,” Nick said uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be an orphan. One time Gramps had let him stay up to watch a movie about orphans on TV. It was called Oliver Twist. Orphans had to wear rags and eat awful stuff called gruel. People were mean to orphans.

“The Messenger of Allah, blessed is his name, taught us to protect the orphan,” Zaid declared. He looked down at Nick with his kind eyes, then turned and walked towards his camel.

“Come, you can’t stay here. You would die in the desert,” Zaid said. Nick stood by his dad, uncertain.

“Come, little Scorpion. You will be hungry,” he said and mounted his camel. Nick trudged over to the camel. It turned its great head towards him and drew back its lips, as if it would bite him. Nick froze, afraid to come closer.

“Don’t be afraid, little Scorpion,” Zaid said.

Zaid leaned down and stretched out his arm. He took Nick’s little hand in his and pulled him up. He struck the camel lightly on the neck with his riding whip. The camel rose awkwardly in stages, like a beam being jimmied up. Zaid struck her again and called: “Hatatat!” Nick almost laughed, because it sounded like he was saying “Hot-hot-hot,” and they were off.

At twilight the men of the Mutayr lined up their prayer rugs and bowed their heads towards the dying red sun that lay in the direction of the gibla, which is towards Mecca. After the maghrib prayers, everyone joined Sheikh Zaid in his tent for dinner. They ate chunks of roasted lamb on a bed of rice called shawirmu, served on a single great round brass tray, and dipped pieces of pita bread into bowls of fool and goat’s milk cheese called gibna beyda min. Everyone reached into the same bowls with his fingers. Sheikh Zaid plucked choice morsels of lamb and fed Nick with his own hand. The meat was hot.

Sheikh Zaid’s son, Youssef, who at ten was much bigger than Nick, taught Nick to reach for the food with his right hand only. The left hand was used to wipe yourself after you went to the toilet, except the only toilet was a hole in the sand. Youssef explained this to Nick in clumsy English and a pantomime that had all the men laughing.