Huda opened her mouth, but her tongue turned to stone. The men frog-marched her through a set of doors behind the desk. Just before they swung shut, Huda caught a glimpse of Ally spooning sugar into a coffee cup, and her long dark hair shining beneath the chandelier.

The men dug their fingers into Huda’s arms and propelled her down a narrow corridor. They threw open a door. Dreams of silk dresses evaporated.

“Please, don’t!” cried Huda.

She glimpsed filing cabinets lined up against the wall, then one of the men grabbed the back of her neck and flung her into an office chair. Its wheels squealed as she sailed across the room. Like a small child strapped into a whirling carnival ride, Huda clutched the arms and tried not to throw up.

“Please,” she cried, “I can explain.”

“Shut up,” barked the taller of the two mukhabarat. He had a large scar on his left cheek—a curl of purple skin, raised and swollen like a worm. His partner ripped Huda’s handbag from her shoulder and emptied the contents on top of a desk.

“I’m not—”

“I said, shut up.” The scarred man bent over Huda’s chair and shoved his face in hers. “Are you deaf? Or just stupid?”

As the men rifled through her wallet, sweat bloomed in Huda’s armpits. The sharp odor of fear permeated the air. She wished she’d let Ally take a taxi. She should have gone home and cooked lamb stew for Abdul Amir, then taken Khalid to the ice cream parlor. Two scoops of pistachio for him. Chocolate for her. Just like old times. An enormous sob rose in her chest. Why hadn’t she kissed Khalid goodbye before she left, or Abdul Amir?

“Who are you?” The purple worm twisted on the mukhabarat’s cheek. “And who is the foreign woman?”

Huda’s words tripped over each other in their haste to escape. In a strange way, it was a relief to tell the truth. There was no risk of judgment. Not from men like these. The scarred man plucked a small blade from the desk. Huda shrunk into the chair.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he said.

He began to toy with the blade, tapping it against his palm, scraping dirt from his nails. It dawned on Huda that it was a letter opener, not a knife. Still, it could slice out an eye, as easy as scooping flesh from a melon.

“Abu Issa can confirm everything.” Huda pointed to her handbag. “You will find his number in the side pocket.”

He snatched up her bag and threw it in her face. It bounced off her cheek and tumbled into her lap.

“Hand it over,” he said.