Ally pulled her scarf higher. On the far side of the median strip, the Oldsmobile slowed to a crawl. Two thick-necked men with caterpillar brows and matching mustaches eyed her through its tinted glass. The passenger rolled down his window. Guttural snatches drifted across the bitumen. The words weren’t listed in any of the Arabic textbooks Ally studied every morning, but she understood their intent. They were forbidden words, words wrapped in spittle, words that rattled in throats.

Muttering under her breath, Ally ignored the catcalls and plowed her gaze into the sidewalk. Eventually, the driver gave up, pressed his foot on the gas, and accelerated away. As soon as the car disappeared past the carpet shops, she pulled her scarf all the way over her hair and skittered down a side street lined with well-tended homes.

The quiet street was scented with lavender from a hidden garden, and Ally tried to flush the adrenaline from her system with a couple of deep breaths. She wondered if her mother had been dogged by sleazeballs too. Her postcards never mentioned it. And while her old photos occasionally featured women cloaked in black robes, most of her Iraqi friends wore platform boots, flared pants, and even miniskirts.

The wind pulled Ally’s scarf tight around her neck, then eight cylinders growled low in her ear. The Oldsmobile motored around the corner in front of her, as if it had been lying in wait. A mix of a yelp and a groan fled Ally’s lips. Behind the windshield, the men threw their heads back and laughed, baring white teeth and fleshy tongues.

Ally took a deep breath, then bolted straight toward the car. The men’s mouths opened in surprise. At the last moment, she veered a sharp left into the street housing the embassy. Her sandals slapped loudly against the sidewalk, but the noise failed to drown out the obscenities spewing from the passenger’s window.

The Oldsmobile drew closer. Ally could hear twigs snapping beneath its tires. She spotted the Australian flag. Moments later, an embassy guard strode out to the middle of the street.

“Madam Ally?” he called. “Are you okay?”

She shot an anxious glance over her shoulder. There was nothing but anonymous walls and high gates, and the throb of a V-8 engine lingering in the air.

* * *

Tom paced in front of his desk, clutching his blond hair like he was going to tear it out.

“I know security says it’s safe to wander about, and that might be the case for me and the other blokes on staff, but certainly not for you. We need to hire you a driver. No more excuses.”

Ally slumped on a cushioned bench by the door.

“Okay, you’re right.” She wiped sweat from her lip. “Catcalls I can handle, but not this.”

Tom stopped pacing.

“So you finally agree, we’ll get you a driver?”