She could see the boy watching them, his arms folded. He was narrowly made, with bushy bangs, ears under more waves of hair, a capable expression like that of a miniature grown man. He wore grape-green plastic mold slip-on sandals a size too little. She could see him trying to read their horsing around. When they got closer, he went under the dome, back into the hidden corner. The light was graying down fast, but she could make him out, crouching, and pouring from a thermos. When she sat near the tablecloth, he handed her a snag of bread torn from what resembled a flopping pita two feet long.

It didn’t taste as good as it smelled. The tea was too tannic, and as she forced it down she started thinking about the headscarf. The kid sensed it, because he picked it up and nodded at her. Was he going to put it on her? She shook him off. No help needed there. He wobbled up and brought back from a plastic bag what looked like a short black raincoat. She stood up, took it from him, and put it on. She folded the black scarf in a triangle and tied it under her neck. Will wasn’t watching this fashion show. Sometimes he did that—just disappeared in full sight, lost in thought.

But now the kid was hopping around, tidying up and emptying their cups, and when he got done, he bowed with a flourish in front of Will. That got Will from his funk.

So they loaded up the Khodro with a cooler, containers of gasoline, a bicycle that the kid had come on, along with some baskets he’d saddled on its fender. He climbed in the back seat, lucky he was little, because it was more of a half-bench than a place to sit. He fit just right. Will put the truck in neutral and drifted away from the entryway, waiting until they reached the dirt road to get in gear and slowly accelerate. The kid’s chin was on their shared front seat, anticipating.

“I am Baz,” he said as the truck picked up speed.

“Madar,” Will said to Mary. The Farsi word for “mother.”

“Pedar,” Baz said to Will. Father.

“I am honored to be your guide,” Baz said in English to both of them.

“How old are you, Baz?” Mary asked. She guessed he was nine.

“I am thirteen years old,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Will asked her, his eyes on the road.

“Yeah. You?”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“The map?” he said to Baz.

“I have it, mister.”

Will put his hand up for it.

“It is here in the head of me.”

The boy won a genuine laugh from Will. Mary wanted to tell Baz: Jackpot. Don’t count on another one soon.

“My uncles are wanting you.”

“Are they?” Will said.

“They are wanting you to the yaylaq.”

“I understand,” Will said.

“I will take you.”