“Sit, sit.” Kareem waved the women toward two plastic stools, while he joined the cleric behind what appeared to be an old school desk. Gray smoke twisted from the kerosene lantern in the corner. “We don’t have much time, so please tell us what you need.”

Huda coughed and cleared her throat.

“I need a passport for my son,” she said. “Or the mukhabarat will put him in the fedayeen.”

“Why have the mukhabarat taken such an interest in your son?” Kareem eyed her curiously, but the cleric kept his eyes focused on the wall just a few inches above the women’s heads. “What’s so special about him?”

Huda blushed a painful red that spread from her cheeks down her neck and to her chest. She stared at the floor and mumbled that she was an informant spying on her boss’s wife, and the mukhabarat were using her son as leverage. A stitch of pity needled Rania’s ribs.

“Why didn’t you simply tell them you couldn’t do it?” said Kareem.

“Sir, you are a very educated man. From your accent, I can tell you come from a fine family. Probably like Rania, there is a boulevard with your surname.” Huda shifted on the stool. “I’ve no doubt you have suffered. Many great families have been pushed aside, and ignorant peasants from Tikrit have taken their place. Nonetheless, you are still someone. Someone who can say no and possibly live another day.”

She sighed, a spluttering sound like a lantern being snuffed out.

“I was not schooled abroad. My family never owned a library of books. If you don’t believe me, ask Rania. She’ll tell you, I’m a nobody.”

Rania twisted about.

“That’s not what I—”

The cleric raised his hand for silence. It was the first time he’d moved, and the prayer beads clacked loudly at his wrist. He leaned toward Kareem and whispered in his ear. Kareem nodded.

“Let’s move on,” he said. “First, practicalities. We need two passport photos of your son.”

“Yes.” Huda nodded eagerly. “I have them.”

“Also, his birth certificate.”

“Yes.”

“We will need a copy of your housing card with current address.”

“I have a copy with me.”

“A letter of authorization from his father.”

Silence.

“What about a letter from me, his mother?”

“The government changed the law a few years ago,” said Kareem. “The father’s signature is now required. If he has passed on, an uncle or grandfather may sign.”

The cleric’s lips twitched with approval. Rania tasted the kerosene fumes at the back of her throat.

“Finally, for a passport, we will need seven hundred dollars from you. An exit visa is an extra two hundred dollars.”

“Nine hundred dollars?” exclaimed Rania. “She’s just a secretary. It’ll take her years to find that sort of money.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kareem. “The price is out of our control.”

“But she can’t—”