Minutes later, Huda found herself in the kitchen, heart pounding like a sleepwalker woken far from her bed. The mukhabarat were in the sitting room, waiting for tea. She wondered, If she closed her eyes and prayed, would it turn out to be nothing but a bad dream? But even as she thought it, she knew life didn’t work like that.

On the burner, the teapot boiled furiously. Steam spiraled toward the ceiling. Huda placed the sugar pot and teaspoons on the tray. As much as she tried, she couldn’t stop the glasses from rattling in their saucers, jingle-jangling all the way back to the sitting room.

The mukhabarat had made themselves at home. The Bolt Cutter’s boots were stacked on the coffee table.

“Young man, what would your—” Huda caught the reprimand just before it slipped from her lips. She stood, waiting for him to remove his boots.

“Our sister has brought us tea.” Abu Issa flicked his hand at the Bolt Cutter like he was waving off a biting fly. “She needs to set it down.”

The Bolt Cutter dragged his boots off the table. They thumped against the rug like cinder blocks. When Huda put down the tray, the Bolt Cutter ignored the tongs and dug his fleshy fingers into the sugar pot, rooting around among the pale cubes. Huda pressed her lips together in a thin line.

“Sit, sit.” Abu Issa waved her toward the seat opposite him.

Huda perched on the edge of the cushion, spine erect, feet together, hands in lap, perfectly still except for her fingers rubbing back and forth, as if counting prayer beads.

“So please tell us,” said Abu Issa, “how are your relations progressing with the foreign woman?”

“I’m doing my best. These matters take time.”

“In a perfect world, we could wait until the apricots bloom. Alas, the world is not perfect.”

“But there is nothing to—”

“Careful, sister.” Abu Issa stared over the rim of his tea glass. “A lie takes only one moment to leave the mouth, but it can linger to the grave. Now, tell me, is your husband ready to start his new job?”

“His new job?”

“As the foreign woman’s driver, of course.”

Huda’s fingernails dug into her palms. Damn Amira’s snake tongue.

“My husband is a financial analyst, not a driver.”

“I understand.” Abu Issa set down his teacup. He flexed his fingers and cracked each joint. One by one, sinews and cartilage popped. “Working for a foreign woman would be distasteful for any Iraqi man, especially a loyal patriot such as Abdul Amir. But she will pay in American dollars, yes?”

“I don’t think—”

“Abdul Amir will be well compensated by the diplomat’s wife.” Abu Issa smiled icily. “And finally, she has realized she can’t parade through our streets, flaunting herself like a jezebel.”

The Bolt Cutter sat forward and grunted.