Sanctuary. That word. I want to feel its meaning as these people are offering it: food, camp for Kamal, lawyers. They are trying to smooth away our worrying. But the best part of this time is being with Carlos, every day, exploring the nearby hills.

Over the next week, while Kamal is in camp, Carlos and I take walks in the sloping woods behind the synagogue grounds. He brings his sketch pad and draws the view as I pull out an old paperback and read, sometimes write in my notebook. I texted Fatima again but she hasn’t answered. Maybe that’s what we need right now: a little space. Though it hurts.

I’m happy, but also a sadness draws through me, like the shadows lengthening on the ground. Fall coolness seeps through our T-shirts. We kiss some more, then we brush off our legs and climb down the hill. At the synagogue, Carlos teasingly pulls some stray stalks of grass from my hair. At dinner, we’re still flushed, so Kamal makes faces at us.

I wish we could tie ourselves, like those syrup lines, to these sturdy people who care for us. On Saturday I wake to the sound of services. I remember, long ago, the call to prayers over scratchy speakers. At the end of the day, Ammi and I would weave through the bazaar, strung bulbs fizzing and spitting in each little stall. During Ramzan, Abu would return in the evening with steaming containers of rice and kebabs. Ammi made a big pot of seviyan kheer and we’d eat that first, gulping down the slippery sweet strands, until she scolded me to save room for the rest.

All these sounds and tastes once locked in the box of the past come spilling out. Nights with my parents. Mild air, bougainvillea on wrought-iron fences. Abu and Ammi’s friends sitting on blankets, listening to singers on a stage. They sway, arms around their knees, and sing too. We stay for hours until I fall asleep on Ammi’s lap. Then we are in the back of a taxi, streetlamps stripe the windows, the hum and bump of road. To think this is what those fundamentalists want to bomb away, Abu remarks. Hush, Ammi says, her fingers stroking my hair. Don’t let the driver hear. They push their voices low. Another memory: I hear the landline ringing. Ammi slamming it down, in tears. How could I forget so much? Even my old-school uniform—a light blue shalwar kameez, a cardigan for the cold mornings.

As I lean against Carlos, a snatch of ghazal comes to me, and I start to sing, badly:

Tajdaar-e-haram

Tajdaar-e-haram ho nigaah-e-karam

Tajdaar-e-haram ho nigaah-e-karam

Ham ghareebon ke din bhi sanwar jaaenge

Haami-ye be-kasaan kya kahega jahaan

Haami-ye be-kasaan kya kahega jahaan

Aap ke dar se khaali agar jaaenge

Tajdaar-e-haram

Tajdaar-e-haram

“What’s that mean?” Carlos asks.