“Inside?” Huda planted herself between the men and the front door. She was almost certain this visit had nothing to do with Khalid skipping the president’s victory parade. But what if she was wrong? What if Principal al-Quds had turned them in? For a moment, Huda pictured herself leaping on the Bolt Cutter’s back, tackling him to the ground, and gouging his eyes out. She’d do it if she had to—like one of those legendary mothers who fought off wildcats, lifted crashed cars, or performed superhuman acts of strength to save her child.

“Please, follow me.” She shepherded the men toward a tall wooden gate at the side of the house, then down a path of concrete slabs to the backyard. “Take a seat at the picnic table. I’ll fetch tea.”

“I’ll take a slice of khobuz, if you have it.” Abu Issa smiled superciliously. “Jam too.”

Huda headed to the kitchen, bristling. She wasn’t running a cafeteria. She put the coffee on the burner, then ducked down the hallway to Khalid’s room. As she opened the door he jerked away from the window, eyes bulging.

“Is it about the parade?” he cried.

“Not at all.” Huda hugged him to her chest, but not as tightly as she wanted, fearing if she did that she might never let him go. For Khalid’s sake, she needed to stay calm. She looked him in the eye, unblinking. “This is not about you.”

Khalid pulled away from her and peeked through the curtains once again.

“How do you know?”

“Because I do,” she said firmly. “Now get away from the window.”

She peered past his shoulder. The Bolt Cutter looked like a gorilla lounging on her swing seat. She pointed to a comic lying on Khalid’s bed.

“Stay in your room and read quietly. I don’t want to hear a sound from you. Understand?”

“But, Mom—”

“You’re already in serious trouble, young man. Don’t make it worse.”

She left him sulking and sniffing, and returned to the kitchen. She put together a tray of coffee, khobuz flatbread, and ramekins of butter, date molasses, and buffalo cream, then carried it all out to the garden. Abu Issa had made himself at home, legs stretched out, basking in the sun at her picnic table.

“Please, take some food and drink,” she said, hoping he would choke on it.

Abu Issa tore off a strip of bread and dipped it into the molasses.

“So, a journalist called the embassy.” He dunked the jammy morsel in the cream. “What did he say?”

“His name is John Wales. He said he worked with Peter Francis, the journalist Ally visited at the Rashid Hotel.”