Idrees’s customer is unlike any middle worlder we have ever seen before. Her hair is made of dappled feathers of various lengths. Several of these feathers are missing, and her scalp is covered with either scars or baby feathers. Her eyes are the silver of mercury. Her skin is dark like the night, and when she smiles at us, she reveals teeth with sharp points. We thrum like the strings of a guitar; our senses flood with warnings of danger.

“My name is Assi,” she says. “I bear you no ill will.” We remain unconvinced. She walks closer to us and we tense. “Will you show me your palm?” She addresses Paheli directly, but we all hiss, putting our hands behind our backs. Paheli tilts her head, looking at the woman without betraying any of the tension we are stiff with.

“Why do you need to see my palm?” she asks the middle worlder.

Assi, if indeed that is her name, gives Paheli an inscrutable look. “I am searching for a group of girls who call themselves the Wild Ones.”

“To what end?” Paheli again.

“I heard they frequent Idrees’s store, so I came to leave a message for them. What serendipity to meet them here.” The woman smiles. With all her teeth.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Paheli says.

“I have an invitation for the Wild Ones,” Assi replies. She really doesn’t want to answer that question.

When Paheli doesn’t respond except by silence, the woman continues. “In two days, there will be a gathering in Byblos. The stars you wear in your palms—the one to whom they belong will be present at the gathering. He asks to meet you there.”

Paheli starts at the middle worlder’s words. Her eyes narrow and a quicksilver expression of panic freezes her features.

“Will you attend?” she of the sharp teeth asks. We look at Paheli.

“We might,” Paheli replies very reluctantly.

“Excellent. I will tell him to expect you,” Assi says. Without another word, she disappears, leaving us unsettled and curious.

The Best Ice Cream in the World, Teddy Bears, and a Tree Creature.

Hanna Mitri in Beirut, according to various sources, sells the best ice cream in the world. After our run-in with Assi, we find ourselves in severe need of sustenance of the sweet kind, so we make our way to El Saydeh Street, where the ice cream parlor is located. It is a small, unassuming place, manned by an elderly gentleman who cannot quite control his surprise when we pour into his shop and fill it, almost to bursting. The walls are white, the television set in a corner is old, and the oven has bullet wounds.