She took a deep breath and watched Ally duck into a small delicatessen. A few minutes later, she emerged with two bulging plastic bags. A moment later, a small boy toddled out from an alley. Ally smiled as he ran toward her, waving a stick in the air like a make-believe sword. From her corner, the newspaper vendor watched, unsmiling, as Ally ruffled the boy’s hair.

Ally played with the child for a minute, then she deposited one of the plastic bags by the wall, alongside the woman’s stock of newspapers. She bent down, pretended to steal the child’s nose, and then strode on in the direction of the embassy, without looking to the woman for thanks. Huda admired her generosity. If she’d been the one handing out groceries, she would expect to hear, “Allah, bless you, sister,” or even better, “May you live a long and happy life.”

The newspaper vendor scanned the street warily. Was she on the lookout for mukhabarat? Weeks ago, Abdul Amir noticed Ally’s interest in the boy and his mother, and reported it to Abu Issa. He sent one of his men to interview the woman about Ally: how often she stopped by, where she went, what she said. Huda examined the woman’s stiff spine, her razor-sharp cheekbones, and hooded eyes. Like anyone else, the newspaper vendor knew it was dangerous to get close to foreigners. Still, she needed the food Ally provided. And the girl always made her son smile—perhaps that made it worth the risk.

Huda watched Ally disappear down the road. She wished she could fling open the door of the photography studio and call after her. She wished they could stroll to the riverside, like people did before, in the golden years, the years of plenty. Most likely Ally would crack some jokes, or point out how the sun’s rays split into rainbows as they bounced off the blue dome of a mosque. She wished they could simply be friends, free to speak their minds.

But Huda knew that after being warmed by Ally’s unfiltered cheer, she’d be required to provide a full accounting of every word. Abu Issa would chastise her for failing to unearth an ugly secret or some snippet of information to pass on to his superiors. The Bolt Cutter would crack his thick, hairy knuckles, one gristle-laden pop after another. Huda knew she had no choice, but the closer she got to Ally, the greater her shame grew, like a microscopic toxin multiplying beneath her skin.

“Your photos are ready.” Abu Nasser returned from his darkroom, bringing with him yet another wave of malodorous gas. Huda took a final glance at Ally disappearing down the road. Her eyes stung, but this time Abu Nasser’s chemicals weren’t to blame.

* * *