When Carla came to the cafeteria and apologized that she hadn’t yet gotten the right person on the phone, Mom had asked if she could join Carla on the calls and Carla had reluctantly agreed. Her call to the ministry came through while I’d been sitting across from the mustached man.

“And you didn’t have to grease the wheels a little?” Clay asks me as he tears off a piece of warm bread. I’ve filled them in on my visit to the ministry and relayed the information I was able to obtain.

“Not at all. He just asked me to keep it quiet. Said he was breaking all kinds of rules for me.”

“And he didn’t give any hint where this place might be?” Mom asks again. She huffed a bit when I told her where I’d gone but bit her tongue. She and I both know she would have done the same. Rather, she has done the same.

“Not at all,” I reply. Clay’s phone chimes with a message. Selena’s name appears on the screen. Clay reads it, taps out a quick reply, and then sets his phone back on the table.

“There’s a small kebab stand down in the market. I mean, literally a stand. The guy fries onions and tomatoes in this pan wide as this table. That kebab was almost worth two days of gastrointestinal hell.”

Clay’s willingness to dodge bullets and torture his bowels in his quest for the truth astounds me.

“Poor Selena. She’s got to be wringing her hands every time you leave home,” I say.

“Selena? Nah. The more danger I get into here, the happier she gets,” Clay says.

I want to ask what he means, but bite my tongue so I don’t risk offending a man in love. It occurs to me, though, that this is the first time Clay has mentioned Selena, and his eyes hardly lit up to see her name on his phone.

Is that how Adam and I acted toward each other? I had long ago stopped feeling the small thrill of his phone calls or text messages. Maybe walking through fire makes it hard to feel sparks.

Clay stabs a piece of kebab with his fork, inspects it, then brings it to his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, as if he’s going to issue a final score for the chef. But when he’s swallowed, he swipes his napkin across his mouth and looks at Mom.

“When you were here,” he asks her, “did you have any idea of what was about to come?”

Mom pauses before answering, her face shadowed with regret.