In addition to the amnesty, the president had declared a national holiday. Hip, hip, hooray, she thought sarcastically. At least it would give honest people time to reinforce their locks and the bars on their windows. Abdul Amir wiped his hands on a towel and headed to the carport. Once he was gone, Ally swiveled toward Huda.

“I owe you,” she said quietly. Huda went to wave her off, but Ally reached out and trapped her hands. “I learned an Arabic proverb recently: ‘a true friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out.’”

Huda’s throat began to ache. “It was nothing.”

“Not everyone is brave enough to open their home to a . . .” The young woman blushed and trailed off. “I’ve been enough trouble. I should go now.”

Huda tried to muster an appropriate reply: No problem at all. You’re welcome. Come any time. But the words refused to obey. Instead, Huda stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Ally, and hugged her. In the carport, the Corolla rattled to life.

“I’ll open the gate,” muttered Huda, blinking back tears.

As Abdul Amir reversed into the street, Huda collected his garden gloves and rested the long pole topped with pruning blades against the house. An agitated wasp flew in from the sidewalk and buzzed her like a kamikaze. Huda retreated to the front door, but as she reached for the knob a low burble stopped her hand. Faint at first, the familiar growl of the Oldsmobile’s V-8 engine grew louder. Huda wrenched open the door and stuck her head into the foyer.

“Khalid!” she hollered, heart loud in her chest. “I have visitors. Stay in your room.”

The Oldsmobile pulled up on the far side of the gate. Huda had been expecting this visit. That didn’t stop goose bumps from prickling her spine. She knew there was no hiding the journalist’s phone call. In fact, she’d called and left a message for Abu Issa, knowing he might already have seen a transcript of the call or listened to a tape recording. On the far side of the garden wall, a car door slammed. Then another.

Huda closed her eyes. She told herself to focus, to expel all distractions, to turn to her center, like her grandmother did when she was seeking insight. Huda took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and returned to the gate.

“As-salaam alaikum.” She slid the bolt loose.

“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” Abu Issa strolled in from the sidewalk. The Bolt Cutter lumbered after him.

“Did you get the message I left last night?” Huda bobbed her head at Abu Issa. “A foreign journalist contacted the embassy.”

“Let’s talk about this inside,” he said.