For a while, Hoseyn amused himself with if-then-else statements, writing them in columns like software code along the borders of the three-ring hotel directory. His hand ached a little from holding the pen too tightly. His anxiety had gotten the better of him. He shook his hand a few times. There was an abraded feeling on the roof of his mouth, probably from eating too many chips. He was thirsty, and his bathroom glass empty. He looked at his watch. It was almost eight in the evening.

He unfolded himself from the desk chair, trying to stretch out his hamstrings and lower back, toggling his neck. He was too thirsty to put his ear to the door when he passed it on the way to the bathroom. He turned on the tap.

He would remember it later, how in the next moments the building downshifted, as if a scalding hand had pushed down at the point where the next room began. The tiles of the tub flew away. The showerhead twisted into a straight line. Clouds that smelled of drywall held him. Pelting bricks and the groaning of wood casings continued, until a quiet came that was followed by back-flipping beds, tumbling chairs, some floor reaching a breaking point not far from the sloping floor on which he stood, clinging to a towel bar. His pursuers had found the transistor in the pocket in the next room. They had wanted him dead. He was, once again, not dead. As the crumbling resumed and a new settling threatened, he came out of his stupor to understand that the Americans were not his hunters and that the guns for him pointed from home.

TIBER CREEK   NOVEMBER

7.   O MY DOVE, LET ME SEE

Adam believed Martina Welk was the best candidate for managing editor. The most stressful night he remembered, she was the calmest. No embarrassment fell on her watch. No slippery favorite had ever conned her into accepting fake copy. No news outlet challenged reporting she’d edited. All he ever heard, from editors outside the building, was this: Martina Welk was sound. Inside, she’d rarely ticked off anyone, except those ticked off by most everyone. She could disappoint a rookie with a crummy assignment, or ease out a veteran with a plum one. She had the coldness to lead, but, unlike most who did, she took care to make herself available and look them in the eye. She was only slightly humorless. She confided in no one—if she did, he couldn’t tell who it might be—a feat in a pen of magpies. She was outwardly fair to other editors, many of whom were rivals. She delivered criticism without venom. She read the paper. It had become depressingly clear to Adam that not everyone did. The reporters—so be it. But there were too many editors he could tell were off the page.