“You asked. What do you think you’ve been being exposed to since that hospital room in Pittsburgh?”

The memories of her almost dying as a child, and the near escapes from death, moored her to a deeper perception of the path she’d been on.

“Were you responsible for the missile going off course?”

“I was part of the energy that made that happen.”

She didn’t know anything about him. She’d avoided knowing anything about him.

“Who are you?” she cried.

“I know you want answers to all the questions you have. But anything I say, beyond what I’ve said, your mind will argue with. So, why don’t you accept that I’m here to help you. I’ve always been here to help you.”

“Can you help us survive what we’re attempting to do?”

“We already are. But there’s no guarantee. We’re not God. We’re guides.”

“What about Mariam?”

“There are memories that will open for her. And you must be there to help her understand.”

“And Julian?”

“He’ll make sure the others are safe.”

“Others?”

“Those who’ve been brought together at the cottage. There are many of us who’ve been waiting for this. Waiting to help shift the downward spiral of the world. And, because of you, it has begun.”

92

92

Sunday, October 25

Dominique sat across from the imam in the same empty restaurant in the strip mall on the edge of D.C. where Nazir first met him the previous Sunday. She’d been here a few minutes, but time had slowed, and each second seemed elastic.

It was within that yielding space that she knew him.

Not from this life, but something deep in the past. It was a web from another level of another reality, the doors of which continued to open in inimitable ways.

If there was a center to her experience of him it was his eyes. They were ice-blue. An odd color for someone from his culture. Also, beautiful and frightening. She’d seen eyes like that before.

Pashtar, again, lurked in the shadows.

“We are the children of a ravaged, despised people, fighting with whatever means we can to recover our dignity. Nothing more, nothing less.” The imam addressed Dominique with respect. “Our homeland is violated. We spend the evenings gathering our dead and the mornings burying them. And you are comfortable in your refuge here while an inferno consumes us in another part of the world.”

He leaned into her.

“I know about your brother, Miss Valen. We’ve each lost loved ones. How is your rage at his death different than ours with the young men and boys who come back to us dead from your bullets and bombs?”

“It’s not different.”

“You’re an eminent journalist trying to understand. I appreciate that. But there is nothing for you here.”

He rose to leave.

“I think there might be,” she said.

He stopped. His eyes on her.