I felt the breath of clustered trees at the forest’s edge. Looking down either direction into the vegetation was like peering into the twisting endlessness of one of two parallel mirrors. The sun was sitting on the horizon, and the sky had gone from a dull greyish-blue to streaks of clementine and pomegranate. Far-off crows had begun to harmonize as they typically do at dusk.

The sky turned deep purple that night. Nighttime cloaked the bright green trees and made the forest a sea of unfamiliar sounds. Despite this I could see between the trees with more clarity as the waxing moon climbed higher in the sky and shone brighter. Its mouth was open as if it would swallow the mountain. I lived my life on the edge of the same forest, but I never went past the village limits after dark. I was an upright child, and the thought of subverting my parents never occured to me. The sound of my breath echoed louder from within the trees. I thought about our mountainside bathed in sunshine, and I still did not recognize where I was. We were blessed to be surrounded by cypress, pine, carob, and olive trees, but they all crowded in on me, emboldened by the night, trying to slow my search. I avoided the other searchers. I had a small frame so I would quickly climb trees in a hush. I climbed to higher ground to search for any movement among the leaves, and to hide when others passed.

I kept moving further down the mountainside towards the valley until I could only hear the search party chatter in the distance. I could not figure out why Nasma would venture so far out. I began to fear the grim possibilities. There were not many dangerous animals, but there were unproven stories of otherworldly beasts. Even then as a child, I knew these stories were nonsensical ways to describe things misunderstood. My parents, two meticulous farmers, constantly affirmed my skepticism of local legends. This did not change the way the mysterious space made me feel trapped among the ever-thickening vegetation. When I grew scared, I thought about the possibility that whatever would take me had taken Nasma as well. I thought about my shy nature and how I had foolishly stopped all my attempts to tell her how I felt in the past. I had imagined up a thousand ways to express my true love, and I could have died with them all inside me. I promised myself to not swallow my truth if I found her.

I heard the search party give up in the distance, as I expected they would. The group of lights far behind me hovered back towards our homes, and I was left utterly alone among the trees. At once a drifting sweet smell pulled me in one direction, and I marched towards it as if I had been following the scent from the start of my journey. The leaves rustled in scattered patches ahead of me as I walked, like I was following a small animal I could not see clearly. I found myself walking along a dried-up stream from long ago, littered with rocks and fallen olives. I followed the movement in the leaves with determination; The forest seemed to be taking me somewhere specific, and I had no other ideas. The leaves stopped dancing by a small open clearing, and I saw Nasma ahead of me. Her thick black curls were slightly disheveled, but otherwise she seemed composed and content.

I ran and embraced her. Her skin was cold to the touch, and she was smiling softly at me. Like a worried parent, I gripped her hand and rambled on for a few minutes about what I had done to find her, how I had snuck out of the house, and how the search party disbanded. She remained silent while I spoke at first, then cut me off and began speaking.

“I need to go back.”

I almost did not register her first words, and I pulled at her hand towards the village.

“This stream leads to the tree, I need to go.”

I asked her why she needed to go to the tree, still tugging at her and making little effort to actually pull her anywhere. I could also feel the presence of trees from all sides.

“I’m looking for fruit to give the lady. Tonight I met the spirit of the old carob tree, she told me the entire history of this mountain. She took the water from this stream long ago, but now she is giving life back to the mountain.”

Her feet were stiff like old roots, so I stopped trying to pull her, and planted my feet like hers.

“Her long hair was woven into the tree bark’s fibers. Her eyes were hidden but I knew she was watching me. Her arms were wrapped behind the trunk, but she offered me unimaginable fruit by summoning it into being. It was delicious.”

Nasma’s eyes were fixed on mine, and she seemed to be in no rush to speak. She chose her words intentionally. Everything she said carried the weight of the mountainside.

“She was bound to the tree, but I felt her perched on my chest.”

She stumbled back in one direction, her other fist filled with squashed mulberries. I began to suspect she was hallucinating, so I pulled her forearm stiffly. She did not seem fazed, and she continued speaking the same way she began.

I gathered all my strength and began to push her up the hill rather than pull. She kept dragging her feet along the rocks, and we stopped twice because she tripped. I was determined to bring her back to her parents so that I could be sure she was safe. I could not stand the thought of her face-down in the forest. We arrived home, but I decided it was late and it would be impolite to wake her parents. I brought Nasma to my house and we both snuck back in through my bedroom window. She was still firmly gripping the fruit. I dropped a few pillows on the floor for me to sleep on, and I let her sleep the night in my bed. I told her I would go with her to her parents’ house in the morning so we could explain what happened. I suppose now it’s no surprise she was gone when I woke up. The sun was still fairly low in the sky. She had made my bed before she left, and all that remained of her was the mulberry stain on my bedsheet.

Nobody believed me when I told them I found Nasma in the forest, and that she was in my room. I showed them my mulberry-stained sheets, and told them about the tree’s spirit and the dried-up stream. I was accused of blatant lies and delusions, and my parents scolded me for entering the forest at night.

Many years after the incident, I did find Nasma. I was walking through the forest around dusk, as I had begun to do frequently once I was no longer considered a child. The sky was blazing blue and orange, and I heard the crows harmonizing as they always do. A familiar sweet smell found me, and I followed it towards a trail of dead animals. The path I followed was littered with lizards, birds, and a single sheep. The animals were left as half-decayed corpses, but they were still dribbling fresh blood. From where I stood it seemed the animals were decomposing before my eyes, as if they were being sucked of their life force. My legs felt weaker with every step, and the sweet smell pierced my sinuses. I caught a glimpse of Nasma through the trees. Her back was against a large mulberry tree, and her arms were wrapped behind the trunk. Her long curly hair was stretched across the tree like tangled spiderwebs. The veins on her face were bared through her sickly skin. She did not look at me but I felt her whispering softly over my shoulder. I thrashed my arms about and ran faster than I believed possible, leaping from trees with boundless strength and fear. I reached the village and told no one of my encounter. That was the last time I entered the forest after dark.

After seven years, Ghada’s bird hatched three eggs in a cone-shaped nest. The cage was purposefully never locked so the bird could fly around the garden and neighborhood, and it would always return. Ghada kept her bird in an enormous rounded cage by the living room window. She fed it fresh fruit from her trees, and sometimes cockroaches from her bathroom. She offered her cupped hand full of fruit by the cage so its long leaning beak could reach through the metal rungs. She involved herself in feeding the bird, it put her at ease. The bird prefered green grapes above everything. Her neighbors questioned her when she first brought the bird in, but it began to add to the apartment’s personality over the years as guests helped feed the bird as well.

Ghada was pleased to find the eggs. It made the bird enthusiastic. Her morning routine was sacred, and she shared it with her bird. Ghada would cook herself scrambled eggs and sing her favorite Asmahan song after feeding the crow. After she cleaned her kitchen, she fetched her book to read on the plump, crayon-red armchair next to the cage. The chair was an antique from her mother’s old apartment, and the only thing she took when Mama died. Ghada was convinced she could still feel the depression in the chair where Mama used to sit slightly slanted. The two of them spent many mornings like this, exchanging songs and whistles.

Two weeks after the eggs, the crow’s feathers began to wilt. Almost overnight the shiny feathers morphed into a muddied fabric. She asked her few friends for advice, but they blamed her for keeping the bird imprisoned for so long. They didn’t understand. Her bird was freer than her. It was the warmth in Ghada’s home and her singing that kept her and the bird lovingly bound. Maybe the bird had fallen into a murky puddle outside, and the dirt crystallized on its feathers. She took the bird into her bathtub and cleaned it gently, over and over. As gentle as she was, this only loosened its feathers and some fell out. She was devastated. She thought her bird was nearing death. How strange, considering it had only recently laid eggs. Ghada called a local doctor. She was well known in the area for her herbal medicines that could ease any sickness. She assured Ghada the bird was still healthy. It had likely been violent with a group of birds outside.

Ghada was convinced for a few days, until her bird only ate half the food offered. It was strange because her own appetite was also beginning to waver. Instead of her usual two eggs every morning, she could barely stomach one. She once liked to slice halloumi on bread an hour or so after breakfast, but she would no longer head to the fridge for snacks. Before cleaning up, she and her bird would sit in silence. Neither of them sang anymore. Ghada’s voice felt heavy in her throat. The bird no longer left the cage, despite the square door remaining unlocked and wide open. It spent its days perched completely still, peering into nothing in particular with wide empty eyes that no longer flickered in the light. Ghada couldn’t bring herself to leave the house except for groceries. Like a shock patient, the bird scarcely moved its neck except to pick at food to scrape by. She felt like her bird on most days. Her human condition forced her to do more than the crow each day, so she pushed through the cloudy fatigue. The whole house felt smothering. She called the doctor again.

Ghada’s body felt like it was falling apart. Her hair used to hold heavy curls well into her thirties. She ate balanced meals and never restricted herself from simple joys. It kept her young. She had a few shallow wrinkles above her nose and at the corner of her eyes, it was natural for a life well lived. Over the course of those days, her hair began to thin and separate. She wore a loose veil whenever she left the house to buy the few groceries she could manage to carry. Her eyes sank sorrily into her cheeks and all her joints clenched together.

On a sunny cloudless Saturday, she dropped the groceries before she had a chance to close the front door. Her palms fell into the heap of food and she began to shake violently. Her finger landed on a can of beans and she tried to shout. Furious, she pulled herself up using the wall with her uninjured hand. The door was still hinged open. She marched to the crow’s cage in a haze and began to shake it and scream. Her voice was still unable to find its way out, but the long croak she managed caused the bird to panic. It became militant and hissed at her. It stretched its wings wide to protect the eggs. Ghada stopped shaking the cage and fell to her knees in heaving tears, still clinging to the metal. As if feeling her grief, the bird immediately calmed down. She fell into a hush and looked up at the bird from the floor. They remained like this for some time, the bird tilting its head back and forth, and Ghada holding a slight smile. The bird broke the spell first. It let out a tired shriek and nudged one of its eggs forward.

Ghada propped herself up on the armchair and opened the cage door. She poked at the egg twice then rolled it into her palm. It was half hatched, but there was no movement inside. She peeled away the loose shell and found the wound-up hatchling dead. She reached inside the cage again and checked the other two eggs. One was unhatched and intact, the other was dead. They grieved together for a moment. The room was deathly still. She buried the hatchlings side-by-side under a small olive tree in her garden and prayed in a hurry. She went back inside and pulled the remaining egg out of the cage with care to examine it. The bird didn’t stop her.

The burden of sickness had continued to poison the house since the bird laid its eggs. Ghada owed it to the bird to make sure one survived. She could not put the egg down for the hours to come that passed like seconds. She cradled it on the floor, the sofa, the bed. She only put it down to tear one of her pillows apart and collect the white feathers that had found their place everywhere. She fisted the feathers into a plastic bowl until it was safe for the egg to rest on top. She could no longer feel her injured finger. She went back to the cage and returned the egg in its new nest. She ripped all her idle blankets from the cupboards and arranged them around the egg. She sat cross-legged across from the bird in its cage, her toes pressed to the cold metal.

For a day she sat fixed in her spot on the floor. They could both sense the egg would soon hatch. She only moved to drink a glass of water once. She didn’t sleep. Her head kept rocking forward, and she would fight to stay awake watching the egg. She must have slept for a minute because she was brought back to life by her bird’s cry. She swung backwards, alarmed, then lifted herself towards the cage. The shell cracked and collapsed inwards. Ghada’s throat and nostrils were on fire. Her bird flew into the cage rungs, missing the door and losing more feathers. The chick was making its way out of the egg, and it was surrounded by something ghastly. The smell of absolute misfortune and sickness came out from inside the shell and choked the room. Her bird found the cage door at last and escaped the murderous stench to the freedom outside the house. The chick collapsed in its own waste. Ghada’s eyes were burning from the roots in the back of her head.

Without any shoes, she ran outside, chasing her bird’s caws. She could never catch up. She kept running to leave behind the stench of death in a place that was no longer her home. She dropped to her knees on the asphalt in a neighborhood she did not know. She ran her fingers through her hair when she caught her breath. She would miss her bird.

I found out Khalo was broken when I was about eleven. The family was at his house to visit and Mama had my hand tightly in hers. I broke away from her grasp and ran to the study. The door was hinged open and I don’t think she realized I let go. She was in one of those half-hearted chats with Khalto that leave you between occupying the conversation and your surroundings. Neither is present enough. Khalo’s study was never locked, even after his frequent visits to the hospital, and I wandered in from time to time to flip through dusty books filled with barely-legible handwriting.

I was surprised to find him sitting at his desk without his caretaker. His eyes were fixed on nothing in particular outside the window, and he had a tattered notebook with relaxed pages laid flat in front of him. He must have heard me come in because he smiled before turning his gaze to me. I hadn’t spoken to him directly in years, so it surprised me when he asked if I wanted to hear a story. I had no choice except to let everything unfold as he liked. The door’s edge was still in my hand, and my feet were stubborn; they would not move. He kept referring to his book as he told his story with vacant eyes. He said it was his old journal.

The waves could have swallowed my entire boat. You know, I built the boat myself. I liked doing things like that, with my hands. I never had any trouble with the sea either. I understood its rhythm. There were the few minor incidents, mostly to do with my engine or the length of my fishing line, and I did some quick patch-up work once. But that one day I was consumed by the water’s anger. The sea seemed calm further out, I promise you. Can the sea choose a victim? I still think about that now.

The entire sky went grey, like a reflection of the displeased sea. The water barely eased itself onto me, it was a rushed nightmare. I turned off my engine and gripped the sides of my boat. I promise you no engine would have stood a chance against what I saw. I threw my fish overboard and prayed for Allah to spare me. The waves would clap against my boat, then lift up to try and devour me from the other side. Of course I was scared; it was the type of fear that settles you closer to the comfort of your own mortality. Not out of will, but the dwindling options. Every time the boat completely filled with water and I braced myself for an end, another wave would strike my boat to empty all the seawater, and I was forced to endure my preparation from the start. The indecisive pull between hope and despair that I felt on the cusp of death might have been worse than the storm itself.

It began to rain in fistfulls as well. Water is strange. It will unwind your nerves when you submerge, but will melt you down under the torrential downpour of rain and waves. Always be wary of where you place your trust. The sea was my friend and in an instant it stripped me of myself. I have yet to get my vengeance —

He began coughing heavily and stopped to take a sip of water. He readjusted his glasses, but only to look up from his book. He stopped talking. He was like this sometimes.

Khalo didn’t come after me when I shuffled out, but I heard him carry on narrating his story moments after I left his study. He was speaking as if I was still standing opposite him. I sat down and held Mama’s hand tight again. I don’t think she realized I ever let go. When we left his house to drop Khalto off then go home, I told Mama what happened. She laughed and told me Khalo was never a fisher. She pinched my cheek and told me he had a tendency to tell tall tales about water, and that it was important to visit him nonetheless because it was lonely for him. She said family is important, so we should be patient with Khalo.

Just over a year passed, and I was cleaning up after dinner when they told me Khalo passed away. He died in his bathtub the evening I found out. It was a strange incident, and they shrugged it off as an ‘unfortunate result of his unpredictable behavior’. They found no sign of resistance. The bathtub was barely filled with water and he was lying, completely composed, with his head just slightly underwater. The curtain and floormat remained neatly in place. However, all four bathroom walls and the ceiling were drenched in water when the caretaker found him.

He locked the door to his bedroom and lay on the floor. He reached for the box under his bed and grabbed the Marlboro Reds. He blew thick smoke out the window while the fan whirred behind him. Who was he kidding? Mama probably knew. Everyday he came home from school smelling like an old ashtray. He’d say the bus driver liked to smoke while driving; that’s why acid couldn’t even wash the smell out of his uniform. Still, Mama wasn’t about to barge in and bust him right there.

The phone rang four times before he picked it up. You heard? Firas was his loose friend through Ibrahim — and he almost never called. The three of them always sat together in History class and made fun of the teacher. Mr. Suleiman had moved from Turkey and only learned Arabic a year before. He rolled his L’s funny. We should get ready for the ’aaza tonight. I’ll come pick you up with my cousin.

He checked his cupboard for a clean suit. Wearing jeans to the funeral would be eib. His only white shirt was wrinkled and smelled like cigarette ash and fries. He decided not to shave the few hairs on his chin and cheek. Mama hugged him close before he left the apartment. He kept his arms to himself.

Firas was leaning against the car. He looked ghastly. His cousin hung his head low in the driver’s seat and didn’t make eye contact. Nasser hugged Firas tight. Only for a few seconds, until they pushed one another away. Firas had sprayed knockoff Calvin Klein cologne under his chin. They weren’t going to a wedding, for God’s sake.

Firas dropped his eyes to the street. He sat up front and ushered his cousin forward. His cousin offered his condolences and kept driving. The next ten minutes were unbearable. Ibrahim’s death was wedged between the three of them. His death filled the car. Nasser was paralyzed. Firas locked and unlocked his phone over and over.

They stopped by Abu-Saleh to pick up bitter coffee in paper cups. Firas’ cousin noisily sipped his and drove with one hand. They stopped at an open plot of land and sat on the hood. The muted-beige brick buildings snaked around the hills down there. Firas sparked his cigarette and coughed a ball of phlegm on the soil. It was that time of the day. The Adaan went off in the distance, then each mosque chimed in, one by one. Just like dominos. Nasser’s eyes welled up. He cocked his head and held his breath. He was a man. He rarely prayed but he found himself reciting the Fatiha. If God was really up there, he wanted him to take care of Ibrahim.

You need a cigarette. Nasser reached for the cigarette in Firas’ palm. He cupped his hand over the cigarette in his mouth to keep the wind from stealing his light. The flame kept his hand warm.

At school, smoking was a rite. Nasser took his first puff two years prior when Firas told him it was time. Firas had always been a little larger than Nasser, and a rough outline of his beard had surfaced before either of the boys’. He never backed away from fights after school. His older cousins always showed up to fight too. He would pick up the phone and they would all show up in minutes. Who has that kind of time? They were a pack of wolves. Firas had picked up his first shisha that year too. It was no wonder he coughed like an old engine. The ritual happened behind the school, by the recycling bins. How ceremonial. Firas smiled when he handed Nasser his first cigarette. Saying no would be suicide.

Firas was huge. He looked like he could be nineteen. Sometimes Nasser wondered if he ever felt anything. He sat on the car not saying much at all. It didn’t seem like he was thinking. Or mourning. Firas was really good at seeming confident and relaxed no matter the situation. He sipped his coffee. Then he sucked on his cigarette.

His cousin was content sitting in the car. He dangled a smoky cigarette out the window and endlessly scrolled his phone. Until everyone got their licenses, they relied on beat-up yellow taxis and older cousins. Did he want another cigarette? He’s fine. It was also convenient to have washed-up older cousins around. They were bigger and burlier. Even bigger than Firas. Nobody could fuck with you if you were with an older cousin. Older cousins were also trouble though. Maybe they let a bunch of kids drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. Maybe they helped steal a household car late at night and got kids killed. But nobody could avoid it. Nasser knew it was either ride with them or stay at home. He was a man. He always told Mama he was taking a taxi when he left the house. Sometimes he did take a taxi. Except, if they were going somewhere as a group, and an older cousin came, he wasn’t going to be that whiny asshole. Mama would have him skinned if she found out. Ibrahim just got killed with his older cousin behind the wheel, and there he was doing the exact same thing.

You want another cigarette? Nasser had barely finished his first one. He didn’t even like smoking. Firas passed him the lighter. He was still closed up, holding his shoulders near his ears. Like a man. He avoided eye contact at all costs. His eyes were fixed on the mosque down the hill. The building’s blue dome broke the beige arrangement. Maybe he felt like he was being watched by his cousin. But he never felt anything. His cousin’s eyes were still fixed to his screen, his cigarette still smoking.

The smoke was suddenly suffocating. The Adaan was ringing in his ears. Ibrahim was dead. His best friend, gone forever. What the fuck. The last time he was forced to mourn someone was four years prior. Diabetes took Teta away. At the time it was ok to cry. He was with family, and family didn’t tell you to man up when family died. His dad never cried, even at his own mother’s deathbed. He probably cried later though, when people weren’t looking. Nasser knew he would eventually be expected to do the same. His cue came when Firas handed him his first ever cigarette.

Nasser flicked his cigarette butt.

“Firas, are you ok man?”

“I’m fine, dude.”

“It’s ok man, you can say it.”

“Dude, I told you. I’m fine.”

Firas was usually cool-headed. If he ever got mad it was because some kid cursed at him and said some shit about his mom. Or his sister. He didn’t even have a sister. He would promise to knock their teeth out after school. He made sure everyone at school knew how he was going to fuck this poor kid up at three, sharp. This Firas was hotheaded. This Firas was always on the brink of ‘fucking someone’s mom’. The Firas that Nasser and Ibrahim chilled with was different. He wasn’t softer, just different. The Firas at the shisha cafe, or the bar, or at home playing FIFA, or in the street sipping shitty coffee, was a mystery. He laughed like any teenager would — in explosive bursts that turned adults’ heads. He made jokes like any other horny piece of shit kid. Still, he never really talked to anyone. He spoke a lot but he didn’t say anything. Nasser knew nothing about Firas’ parents, except Firas was a spitting image of his dad. His mom was sweet and offered Nasser tea every time he went over. His dad gave firm handshakes and never smiled. He walked with his shoulders pinned to his ears. Just like a man. At school, Firas never had a bad day or a good day. They all drifted through their friendship without really knowing him. He was just a big ball of energy they associated with in class and on weekends because he ran shit. Nasser opened up to Ibrahim sometimes. Ibrahim did too. Ibrahim didn’t run shit though, and nobody opened up to Firas, ever.

Ibrahim was Firas’ best friend before Nasser ever joined them at school. Their moms were best friends growing up, and they were raised together. They had inside jokes that Nasser could never get in on. But Ibrahim was dead, and all Firas could talk about was smoking.

“Firas, seriously, we don’t have to talk in front of your cousin, but tell me what’s up, dude.”

He sighed

“Nasser, it sucks, ok? Is that better?”

His cousin watched them go at each other, eyeing Firas. They shuffled back into the car, and Firas cocked his head forward to usher his cousin to move. Nasser tore his phone out of his pocket. The backs of his eyes were on fire. He slouched deep in his seat until they reached the ’aaza.

Nasser couldn’t help but think about fifth grade. Nobody had facial hair then. He had just moved schools, and while everyone was playing football during break, he ate his lunch alone. Ibrahim was the first to break the silence. He seemed confident, like he was sure they would be best friends. Their parents would drop them off at each other’s houses on Fridays after praying salaat al-dhuhr, and they would play video games and mess around outside. Firas would come over too. They would play hide-and-seek, or they would sneak into neighbors’ gardens and pretend to be undercover spies. They would have sleepovers and sometimes watch movies. If they weren’t watching movies they would just talk. It was ok to talk then. They would walk to the neighborhood dukaan and buy too much chocolate. Firas wasn’t always the way he was. He used to make fart jokes and throw a fit if his parents picked him up too early. Nasser had seen him cry a few times too. Like the time he fell off his bike.

Eventually there were less sleepovers. In seventh grade Firas began to hang out with his cousins and some older kids from school. Ibrahim tried to please everybody. He spent Fridays with Nasser, but on Thursdays he left with Firas after school. The two of them would sit on a street corner and eat bizr. They would whistle at girls in the street that would hurry by in discomfort. The girls were definitely too old for them, but nobody could stop them when they were in a pack with older kids. Ibrahim would invite Nasser out of guilt sometimes. Those days were uncomfortable. He laughed at their jokes and whistled with them. He would have rather been at Ibrahim’s house, like it used to be.

Firas rolled down the window and hacked up more phlegm into the street.

“Firas, sorry I kept pushing you to talk.”

“Whatever, man. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Take a cigarette.”

Nasser’s lungs were going to deflate at his pace. Firas pressed his chest out and cleared his throat.

“Unbelievable that he died, right?”

“Yeah, it’s crazy.”

“Man, I was his best friend ever. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he was sneaking out.”

“What — were you going to stop him from sneaking out?”

“No, but at least if I went with them I could have stopped them from crashing.”

“Yeah.”

Ibrahim had just died, and Firas seemed like he was bragging more than grieving. All Nasser could do was nod. Firas looked lonely for the first time that day. Nasser wanted to tell him it was ok to cry. He wanted to as well. But Ibrahim was only dead for a moment, then he would disappear and life would start over again. They needed to be ready to greet all the men in Ibrahim’s family with stiff handshakes at the ’aaza.

They got out of the car and fidgeted with their belts. Firas’ cousin poked his head out the window. Yeslam rasak, habibi. Salaam, Nasser. Then he dumped his cigarette butt on the floor and veered off. The ’aaza happened so fast. They shook hands with every man in Ibrahim’s family. They started with his father, brothers, and uncles at the door, and then they went around to the older men sitting in chairs. They sat down together in the back. Firas took two dates and a small coffee in the fancy cup when they were offered. Nasser’s water was just fine. Some men fiddled with glimmering prayer beads. Nobody cried. It was quiet except for the yeslam rasak every few seconds at the front of the room. A sheikh stopped by and called out a few prayers, then left.