In the kitchen, Huda found a note from Khalid, saying he and Bakr were playing soccer. She opened the kitchen window. The aroma of freshly mowed grass wafted through the screen. Abdul Amir took great pains to keep the lawn lush and neat. He refused to admit that the Iraq of the fabled Fertile Crescent was gone, that the gardens of Babylon would never bloom again. Instead, when he wasn’t at the tea shop, he watered, pruned, and fertilized, keeping close watch over his plants. He sought out pests and exterminated them. Weeds were consigned to the compost bin or, if they threatened to lay seed, burned in the firepit.

Huda poured a glass of water and watched the tangerine sun sink toward the horizon. Ally had said something earlier, about seeing paradise in Baghdad’s sky. Now, as she watched columns of light pierce the pink and yellow clouds, it wasn’t hard for Huda to imagine heaven up there. Maybe Ally was right. She had a way of finding something new and novel in things that most people had long ago stopped noticing. Huda wondered, In different circumstances, might the two of them be friends? Real friends?

In the orange tree, a pigeon hummed to its mate. Its coo was so loud it almost masked the rumble of a car turning into the street. Huda recognized the burble of the mukhabarat’s Oldsmobile, and her throat went dry. Another visit so soon—that would not escape attention. Tonight, every one of her neighbors would be in their backyards, in their quiet places, mouthing words and talking in code. The mukhabarat always brought misery. The question was, would it fall on Huda and her family alone, or would it engulf the whole neighborhood?

Huda hurried to the front door. She checked that Khalid hadn’t messed with the president’s framed portrait and that it remained at the front of the photos. A car door slammed. Then another. Huda scurried down the driveway.

“One moment, please. I’m coming.”

She unlocked the gate and pried it open.

“I’m glad you’re at home, sister, and not tardy this time in opening the gate.” Abu Issa raised the corners of his mouth perfunctorily, like a bored clerk at the post office. He motioned at his bolt-cutting partner to stow his pliers. “After all, good padlocks do not fall from the sky.”

Was this his idea of a joke? Huda asked herself. Was she supposed to laugh? She dithered in the gateway until Abu Issa coughed discreetly.

“Shall we have tea?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Huda’s voice quivered. “I mean to say, please, enter.”