“Have patience, my son.” Huda squeezed his hand. “But for now, I beg you, be quiet, follow the rules, show respect for the government.”

He scowled. “It’s all lies.”

“Please do what I say—don’t skip class. Go to school, and profess your love for the president even when you want to bite your tongue so hard it bleeds. Our situation is going to change. I promise you.”

Khalid laughed sourly.

“I hope you don’t think the Americans are going to rescue us. We Iraqis must take control of our own destinies.”

Control our own destiny? Huda remembered her brother Mustafa saying those same words. Fear snaked through her body and left her rooted to the spot. Khalid glanced past her shoulder. Suddenly, he looked much younger, like he was still a little boy.

“Mom?” His eyes widened. “What’s going on?”

Huda swung about. A police car sped into the parking lot. The old man had left his booth and was standing in the middle of the road with his hands above his head, like he was appealing to God. Another man ran toward him, clutching a rifle. The two guards by the amusement park rushed toward the police car. Over by Martyr’s Monument, four guards became eight.

Huda hauled Khalid to his feet and hustled him into the Corolla. More cars lurched into the parking lot. Civilians this time, slamming on their brakes, paying no heed to the white bays painted on the tarmac. Their drivers jumped out and sprinted inside the amusement park. Moments later, a woman hurried though the turnstiles, herding four children before her.

“Mom, what’s going on?” cried Khalid.

“Quiet, my son.” Huda stamped her foot on the accelerator. “Put your seat belt on.”

As they sped toward the exit, she cranked her window down. The old man was still out in the street, wandering in dumbfounded circles.

“What is it, haji?” she cried. “What’s happened?”

“It’s insane!” he yelled. “Why would he do this to us?”

A gunshot echoed in the distance. Huda thought she saw a cloud of dust advancing from the west, but maybe it was fear drifting across the city, smelling of cold sweat, honking horns, making grown men bellow for their children and women pray for God’s mercy.

“Go home. Lock your doors.” The old man clutched his bald scalp. “It’s a presidential amnesty—every thief and murderer in Iraq is out on the streets.”

* * *

Huda marched Khalid through the front door. The house was quiet. The television was off in the sitting room.

“Go to your room,” she said curtly. “I will call for you after I have had a chance to talk with your father about a suitable punishment.”

“But, Mom—”

“No argument, Khalid. Understand?”