Huda called Hanan over. The girl took Khalid’s arm, and they stumbled away like sleepwalkers. Out on the lake, there was no sign of the fishing fleet. They’d sailed beyond the horizon. All Huda could see was the blurry line where sky met water. She glanced at the Bolt Cutter’s corpse.

“Ally, help me drag him out of sight.”

The girl grabbed the Bolt Cutter’s left ankle. Huda took hold of the Bolt Cutter’s other foot. It was as heavy as a concrete slab. The two women leaned their weight toward the sand and grunted. The body didn’t budge.

“This isn’t going to work.” Huda released her grip. The Bolt Cutter’s boot thudded onto the beach. She rifled through his jeans pocket, leaving his mukhabarat ID, but taking his keys. “I’ll hide his car in the grass. Then we need to get out of here. Fast. No one will stop us once we’re on the highway.”

The two women staggered toward the track.

“Wait!” cried Huda.

She hurried back and ferreted through the Bolt Cutter’s pockets again.

“We can’t forget this.” She passed Ally her wedding ring. Huda took her hand, and the two of them lurched through the salt cedar. As they neared the track, Ally stopped and stared up into space. The birds had fled at the sound of the gun. Not a single cloud stood witness in the sky. Huda told herself there was no time to search the heavens. No time for regret. No time to rage against fate. Yet her tears defied her, and a chasm opened in her chest, vast as the endless blue.

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 31

Outside Amman’s Abdali bus station, an old woman elbowed her way to the curb and broke into a joyful wail. Huda shuffled aside as the woman’s ululations spiraled high into the air, above the honk of taxis, the beseechments of ragged boys selling water and dates, and the roar of double-deckers departing for Mecca. A bug-splattered minivan chugged up the hill and rolled to a stop alongside the curb. Passengers tumbled out, stiff-limbed, blinking at the sun. The old woman swooped on a young man in blue jeans, her arms wide like a blackbird’s wings.

Huda called to a roaming ticket seller.

“Has the minivan from Ruwaished arrived?”

“Not yet.” He glanced at his watch. “But soon, inshallah.”

A people smuggler had transported Rania across the border shortly before dawn, but once on Jordanian soil he claimed engine trouble and dumped his passengers in the closest town. Rania had already been on the road for twelve hours when she called to say she’d finish the journey by minivan. She sounded numb, distant as the moon.