The CIA agent pressed the matter of Hashim. Julian asserted that Hashim and a young jihadi kid were the only others he saw alive after the blast, and they had escaped. He told the truth, but could see from their skeptical eyes that they sensed there was more to the story.

Dominique couldn’t help but be antagonistic to her panel after the impassive General accused her of sympathetic leanings toward the enemy.

“I’ve spent twenty-three months here trying to understand, to help you mend something that’s broken.”

The General stared at her.

“I almost lost my life, and you imply I’m unpatriotic because of what I write?”

She pushed back in her chair, breathless. “Fuck you, General,” she muttered.

She sat silent, furious about her situation, about what damage this inquisition could do to her career, enraged she even cared about her career in a bullshit moment like this. She wasn’t blind to her ambition, or that her fervor had been fueled by the experience in the desert. She knew there were many in the government who didn’t like being confronted by a female journalist, especially since their massive stupidity had made Hashim a jihadi rock star.

The General leaned back in his chair, waiting for her to talk. Whatever she planned to say, if anything, wasn’t going to be an apology.

14

14

The miracle of the boy in the burn unit at Hospital Regionale put the town in a religious frenzy.

Vincente listened to Arama speak of how she believed Jhana-Merise had healed the young boy.

“How could she have done that? She’s in a coma. Look at her. She can’t move.”

He begged Arama to say nothing of this nonsense to anyone.

Vincente moved out of Jhana-Merise’s room. He didn’t want to believe something like that had happened. It frightened him that it might be true.

Vincente understood his culture and its need to believe in saviors. He also knew he needed to protect his daughter from the beliefs of desperate people seeking miracles in place of saving themselves.

Arama came into the hallway.

She and Vincente stood there.

The sounds of the hospital background to their affinity.

“I know you think I’m misguided,” he said.

“Your lack of faith is what’s misguided.”

Those were words like his wife had said to him when she was dying. She believed in miracles. He did too, and prayed for her to get well. It’d consumed him—until she died. That’s when he erased all faith from his life. His daughter was the one thing he couldn’t deny was a gift from a world beyond the one he knew. And he was frightened that she might die.