I remembered that night, the sound of my mother’s voice when she woke me up to tell me about the accident. The first thing she’d sobbed out was, “Thank God it wasn’t you in the car, Aliyah!” I resented that comment, because as much as I knew what propelled her to say it, its intensity embarrassed me. An SUV had run a stop sign and plowed into George’s car, or perhaps it was George who’d run the stop sign. Nobody knew for sure, but only Nadia had been seriously hurt. Her recovery seemed miraculous, and we were all so happy for Auntie Siham. Hanan, Reema, and I had spent days taking turns sleeping at the hospital.

I suddenly wished I hadn’t come, that I could be back in my apartment, where I could cry privately. But I stayed, and we finished Days and even Passions, and both our glasses remained untouched.

When Nadia fell asleep, I chatted with her mother at her kitchen table, whispering like confidantes. “She’s very depressed, Aliyah, but it will be OK.”

“But she shouldn’t push George away.”

“It’s for the best.”

“He really loves her. He calls me sometimes to ask about her—”

“It’s for the best, Aliyah,” she repeated with finality.

Back at my apartment, I pulled out the journals again and sat at my kitchen table, the ceiling fan whirring above my head. I searched again for the day about Jerusalem, not the time I spent alone, but rather the time with Kareem and Fattin. They had taken me first to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; I found the corresponding photograph of Kareem and myself standing before the tomb that dominates the entrance, and the brass lamps that dangle above it and emanate thick incense. My hand was on his sleeve, my smile wide, and for the first time, upon looking closely, I can see that his own hands are clenched. The look on his face is not a free, genuine happiness, but uneasiness—his eyes are looking off to the left.

July 29th: At the Holy Sepulchre, Kareem explained the various sections of the church to me, like the crack in the wall where a shard of wood jutted out. A sheet of glass protected the entire crevice. “They say it’s a piece of the cross,” he said, “and they saved it here in the church.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Fattin snapped, then recovered and laughed. “I mean, it’s the story we are always taught—at least, that Kareem and I were taught.”

“Yes, we don’t really question these things, Aliyah,” Kareem said gently. I wanted to kill him.

“Well, I didn’t grow up next door to a two-thousand-year-old church,” I quipped. “The Catholic Church near my house has only been there since 1940s.” But of course, I understood Fattin’s message—she doesn’t think I am a good fit for her dear, dear friend. I was withdrawn for the rest of the afternoon, and Kareem looked at me with concern and put his hand on my arm during the cab ride, in full view of Fattin who would be sure to return home directly and tell her mother.