Huda—who is so much older than they are, in years and also because she has lived abroad and is a married woman—ignores them at first, but when they go out to the patio, she follows. Suddenly Salwan and Saara are Bedouin of the same tribe, ready to fight the enemy, deaf to Huda’s protests. They take their knives out of their sheaths and stab imaginary attackers. They dance like this, slaying countless invisible enemies until Salwan stops and pulls out his gun. Saara does the same.

The gun is heavy and cold in Salwan’s hands and feels nice, important. He looks up and points his gun at Saara, his finger on the trigger, though she is not the enemy, even in their game. All of a sudden, Huda realizes that this gun is probably loaded, and she shouts at Salwan to put it down, which startles him. There is a huge crack and Saara falls, more from the noise and fear than from the pain in her shoulder.

The world wakes up and time moves in fast and slow motion at the same time. Salwan is frozen, looking first at the large hole that has exploded in the wall around the patio behind Saara and then at Huda, who is bent over Saara and screaming at Salwan to get help. Blood is spilling on the patio floor.

I ran out when I heard the shot, and my mouth cannot stop the cursing at my foolish son who is still holding the gun. My friends, awakened by the noise, run out to see what is happening.

I bend over Saara, still cursing, but then saying nice things so she won’t be scared. I take off my kaffiyah and push it against her shoulder which makes her scream. Then Um Salwan comes out screaming and wailing. I tell her to stop, that the bullet only grazed her shoulder: See, there it is in the wall over there.

Then I remember the gun and go to Salwan, my words soft at first, asking him for the gun, which he hands over without a word. The gun was like his shield and the minute it is out of his hands, my curses and fists are covering his body and Salwan doesn’t move, just drops limp like a bag of rice that’s pouring itself out, and soon I stop hitting him and push him toward the house.

My wife and Huda are still crumpled over Saara. My wife is taking off the belt with rough hands and whispering nice things and begging God to let her live.

“We’ve got to take her to the hospital,” Huda keeps saying.

So many words fill the loud air as I carry Saara downstairs to my truck with Um Salwan and the two Bedouin men following behind us, she whispering prayers over and over and the Bedouin men shouting and whispering and me answering.