Huda had thought that once she left Iraq, she could leave all the lies and manipulation behind. But lies didn’t take kindly to being forgotten, they clung to her pant leg, even as she ran for the door.

“I hope Khalid’s doing okay.” Ally smiled, but Huda thought she saw mistrust surface in her deep blue gaze. As Huda knew too well, to forgive was one thing, to forget another. Deception, betrayal, death, these could not simply be exiled from memory. Even forgiveness was not a one-off, or guaranteed to last forever.

Huda noticed two young men gawking at Ally. The women traded glances and rolled their eyes in unison.

“Shall I give them a lecture on respectability?” said Huda.

“Respectability?” Ally glanced behind her, and from side to side. She leaned against Huda’s shoulder and muttered, “Hang on, I better find some first.”

“I would lend you some,” Huda deadpanned. “But I lost mine years ago. I think it was back when I was dealing blackjack at that casino on the river.”

The two women bent their heads together and snickered.

Maybe forgiveness was a daily exercise, Huda thought, kept alive by unremarkable acts, like waiting with a friend for a late bus to come in, or sharing bad jokes. Perhaps Ally’s broken trust could be repaired. And maybe in turn, Huda could forgive Rania for her costly secrets. But it would take work, and something even more difficult, truth.

Huda took a breath.

“I lied to you earlier.” She glanced at Ally. “Khalid is not doing fine. He’s depressed. He won’t talk to me.”

Ally looped her arm around Huda’s shoulders.

“What about Abdul Amir? Maybe Khalid will talk to him?”

“You’re right.” Huda nodded. “He’d probably understand what Khalid is feeling better than anyone else.”

“How is he doing? Is he still in Basra?”

“He’s staying with his family, in his village.” Huda stared at the sidewalk.

Abdul Amir had done what she asked, and denounced her to the mukhabarat. He said he knew nothing about her escape plan, and that he planned to divorce her. Luckily, Abu Issa was sympathetic, but Abdul Amir was locked up in Abu Ghraib for a week anyway. Abu Issa promised he’d be treated well, so Abdul Amir was beaten only three times, and had his fingernails ripped out on only one hand. Huda sighed and rubbed her eyes. Not many people got to walk out of Abu Ghraib, let alone with all four limbs pretty much intact.

As for the Bolt Cutter, Abu Issa almost seemed pleased that he’d vanished. He told Abdul Amir he’d recommended his partner be punished for killing Hatim—not for the murder, but that he’d done it without prior authorization—only the Bolt Cutter went AWOL first. Or so he believed. Good riddance to that fool, he said. He’s got no respect for his superiors.