Khalid grumbled into his pillow, while outside, the cicadas’ cry cycled up and down. Huda lay beside him and tried to forget Abu Issa and the Bolt Cutter, to banish thoughts of Ally and Rania, but her mind chattered like the insects outside. After Khalid fell asleep, Huda listened to his breath sigh in and out of his lungs. Eventually, she pried herself off the mattress. She stared at the Hand of Fatima, then shuffled from the room.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Tom and Ally fell silent as they passed the flashing traffic lights and neared the men sipping tea and playing backgammon on the sidewalk. In the cool of evening, dice clattered. Dominoes clicked and clacked. A man tilted his head and blew out a stream of minty smoke from his nargilah pipe.

“Hello!” he cried.

Tom raised his hand in greeting and smiled. Ally tried to do the same, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. She kept her eyes down and skirted past the mismatched tables. As soon as they were out of earshot, Tom’s smile vanished.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “I get back from a week away and discover you’ve been playing Nancy Drew. If the woman at the hospital checked the nursing records, they’d show your mom was . . .” He trailed off, checked the sidewalk, and bent close to her ear. “They’d show your mom’s nationality, for sure.”

“I never mentioned my mom. Not once.” Ally scowled. “There’s absolutely zero chance that Mrs. al-Deeb would make that connection. All I said was that I was writing a book about nurses who worked in Iraq.”

“That’s enough to cause trouble,” Tom grumbled. “You don’t have a work permit.”

“What am I supposed to do? Stay home and learn to crochet?”

A seventies Cadillac, a long, wide boat of a car, cruised toward them. The driver tapped the horn to see if they wanted a ride. Gas was far cheaper than water, and in the evening, every second motorist was a freelance taxi driver. Tom waved him off.

“I’m just saying . . .” He scanned the sidewalk again. “If anyone connects the dots, we’ll probably be thrown out of the country.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen.” Ally peered past Tom, to the corner where Mohammad’s mother sold her newspapers. There was no sign of them. She wondered where they went at night. She prayed they weren’t sleeping rough, in an alley somewhere.

A carpet vendor appeared in the doorway of his showroom.

“As-salaam alaikum!” he cried cheerily, as he did every time he saw them on the sidewalk. “Come have tea, my friends.”

Tom nodded noncommittally and deployed his diplomat smile. Two more vendors materialized in nearby doorways, each entreating them to come, recline a while on their fine carpets, kilims, and rugs. Tom and Ally exchanged a sideways glance and crossed the road, away from the men’s sharp ears.