“Come with me, hon,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me gently toward the nurses’ station. She took me behind the counter, and I followed numbly, though curiously.

“Look what we have here,” she said, pointing to a small drawer behind the counter. Two other nurses, both middle-aged like my nurse, sat there, grinning at me. “Go ahead and open it, sweetie,” one of them urged.

I pulled open the drawer and found a treasure chest of candy—Twizzlers, Baby Ruth bars, bags of red Swedish fish, and lollipops.

“Take some with you, hon,” my nurse said. “We don’t like to see anyone sad here.”

Hours later, when Mama told me that Baba had died, that he had not survived the accident or the surgery, I forgot all about those nurses and the drawer full of Twizzlers. But for that small space of time, I had been content, quiet.

Now I stood here in a different capacity, an intern with Brookes, Inc., to meet with some doctors and chief executives about their ad campaign. I was with six other representatives of the company, and I had been told that all I needed to do was keep quiet and take notes.

One of the nurses, looking coolly at our suits and polished shoes, directed us to the second floor, to the executive offices, and from there we were ushered into a large boardroom with a long wooden table. I sat at the end, hoping to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

Ten minutes later, the representatives of the hospital strode in—about twelve people in all, some wearing suits and some sporting white coats. We were introduced to the vice president of the hospital, to the director of public relations, to several of the head doctors, as well as to some staff members and some medical residents.

My eyes stayed focused on one medical resident, wearing a nametag that said “George Haddad, M.D.” He had to be Arabic, by his name and by his looks. His shiny black hair was combed back from his face, and his large brown eyes looked like pools of liquid chocolate. He sat opposite me, at the end of the table, and smiled.

I do not remember taking notes, but when I got back to my office, I saw that I had filled a legal pad with squiggles and letters that meant almost nothing to me. All I could remember was that, during a break in the meeting, right after our Brookes team had presented a video of our campaign idea, George walked right over to me and shook my hand again.

“I’m George Haddad. Your name was Nadia?”

“Yes, Nadia al-Jundi.”

“Nadia …” His voice had a gentle accent, unmistakably Arabic but not as heavy or as pronounced as that of my mother. “You are Arab.”

“Yes. Palestinian.”

“Bit-kalami Araby?” he asked me.

“Na’am,” I answered him. Yes, I did speak Arabic. And I would speak any language he wanted me to at that moment.

After the meeting, he asked if I would like to have coffee with him sometime. “I am new in Philadelphia. Just doing my residency here, and I don’t really know anyone. You’re the first Arab person I have met so far.”