I haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself, but her racing heart refused to believe it. Another soldier, a teenager, weaved through the line of idling vehicles. His boots were too large and his legs too skinny. He’d yet to grow into his bones—just like Khalid. Huda pictured her son bunking down in rough military barracks, while his bed with Star Wars sheets lay empty.

The soldier rapped on Huda’s window.

I haven’t done anything wrong.

The boy stooped over. His eyes were as blank as those of a river carp. Huda could no longer see any resemblance to her son.

“Where are you going? What is your business this morning?”

The soldier offered no greeting, no peace be with you, no as-salaam alaikum. Huda wondered, What had happened to common courtesy and respect for one’s elders?

“I’m going to visit a friend in Mansour.”

The soldier spat a blob of phlegm onto the crumbling verge.

“A rich friend, then?” The soldier inspected the faded vinyl of the Corolla’s back seat. “You don’t look like you’d have friends in Mansour. What’s their name?”

“She’s nobody of importance.”

“A nobody, you say?” The boy wiped his ratty sleeve across his mouth. “There are so many of us nobodies these days.”

He peered again at the Corolla’s worn seats and faded dashboard. He stepped back and waved Huda on, toward the palace on the far bank. Huda lowered her eyes from the enormous turrets carved with the president’s visage. But even after she crossed the bridge, she could feel his granite eyes boring into her back.

Her stomach gurgled. She couldn’t tell if it was anxiety, the result of too many sweets, or both. After the fight with Abdul Amir, she’d curled up on the living room couch and wept until she fell asleep. About four in the morning, she got up, stiff-limbed and swollen-eyed, went out to the garden, and ate pastries, one syrupy, nutty mouthful after another, till she thought she would throw up.

Her gut twisted again. Abdul Amir would be furious if he knew what she was doing in Mansour. Some men would kill their wives for such a thing. Not him though. He never approved of beating women. That hadn’t changed. She was fairly sure of that.

She passed al-Kindi souk, all the while silently rehearsing what she would say. “You owe me,” she muttered under her breath. “If you ever cared, you will do this.” There were many arguments she could use to achieve her goal. Some were prettier than others.