After that, all that remained was the citizenship box. She adjusted her grip on the pen, took a breath, and printed, “Australian.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. The form didn’t ask if she had dual nationality, so she told herself there was no need to mention she was an American citizen too, thanks to her mother. She signed the document quickly, a rushed signature that already looked like it belonged to someone else.

Tom eyed the form like it was Eve’s ruinous apple.

“I sincerely doubt they’ll give you a visa.”

“You underestimate the blinding power of misogyny,” said Ally. “I bet those Iraqi bureaucrats won’t check anything—not once they see the word housewife.”

It turned out, Ally was right. But that was little comfort as she sat in her lonely Baghdad house, scanning some other journalist’s work. She glanced through the barred window. The sky’s friendly forget-me-not glow had vanished, replaced by harsh rays that bleached all the color from the garden. Nothing moved, not a single leaf or a wisp of wind. The heat silenced even the birds. Saddam’s coal-black eyes leered over the stucco wall. Ally could almost feel her world shrinking. Soon, she feared, it would fit into a box on her lying visa form.

* * *

Ally eyed her reflection in the mirror by the front door and scraped her long dark hair into a bun. Embassy security had assured her that as a guest of the state, no one would dare lay a hand on her, that she could walk safely in the embassy district and wear her hair however she chose. Nonetheless, Ally found that left loose, her hair transformed into a pirate’s flag that attracted all sorts of miscreants, curses, and lewd invitations. “Russee, Russee,” men cried, mistaking her for an Eastern bloc prostitute.

Screw it, Ally whispered to her reflection, words can’t hurt. The catcalls of the street were no worse than solitary confinement inside her rented home of marble and concrete. She wrapped a thin cotton scarf around her neck, checked the bulging contents of her handbag, then fished out her keys and set to work on the front door. She turned three locks, pulled aside a bolt, and unlatched a chain, then heaved open the door.

Heat slapped Ally’s face. She stumbled past a bed of thorny rosebushes as Ghassan, their security guard, shuffled from his hut by the gate. His gray hair was shaved close to his skull. He stared at Ally’s feet, revealing a shiny bald patch on top of his scalp.

“Where do you go, madam?”

Ally suppressed a frown. She hated being called madam. But no matter how often she asked, Ghassan couldn’t bring himself to use her name.

“I’m going for a walk, Ghassan.”

“Walk? To where, madam?”

“The embassy.”

“You must call them first. They will send a driver.”

“The phone isn’t working.”