The back room of the cleaners was lit with fluorescents. Its glare made Nazir squint.

Sarif spread out his burly arms as a silent introduction to the three men sitting there, who would help in the hunt for Hashim.

Nazir analyzed these three compatriots. His mind clicked off a series of immediate observations: Arrogant. Undisciplined. Soft.

Although Nazir was the new kid, the crucible of war had formed him, while these men had been overstuffing themselves tending to their “assimilation.” Nazir despised that word.

Nazir was an insider with a privileged track into their target’s mind. He told the men their first objective must be to find the Marine and the journalist. That would be the quickest way to find Hashim. He didn’t know why, but Nazir sensed Hashim was here because of the Americans—and not to do them harm—but kept that to himself.

Sarif’s daughter, Mariam, reminded Nazir of home. Though born and educated in America, she looked like every bit of earth he’d come from. Her face warm and rich like desert sand. They spoke in Arabic, which heightened their connection.

She helped Nazir choose a new wardrobe from the clothes her father had brought for him, for his assimilation.

Nazir changed in the small storage area in a back room of the dry cleaner. The door was ajar and Mariam had many questions about his home. Questions Nazir knew her father would never let her ask. But he could see that she’d been lost in America and longed for the land her father so often talked of. And so, he let her defy what was forbidden, and told her about his home, for he was lost here, too.

He told her of his experience on the other side of the world, and she continued to be enthralled and asked questions about his life and family.

The more he talked, the deeper his conflict grew. The words his grandmother had spoken stretched across his thoughts like ticker tape. “Blood for blood is not God’s way.” She’d said that in the aftermath of his parents’ death, and again after the occurrence in the desert. “You were spared for a reason. Jihad is wrong.” Nazir had no defense against her words now. But he needed to present the self all here believed him to be.

“Are you all right, Nazir?”

“Yes…” But it was a lie.

What had happened to him shook the core of his belief.

He looked different in his dark blue fitted jeans and crisp, white shirt. But he saw a deeper change beyond the clothes. There was a dark cast of sorrow in his eyes reflected in the glass from which he couldn’t turn away. And staring at his reflection it became clear that the reason to find Hashim and facilitate his capture was misguided.

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