The evening wind tugged at her coat and skirt and hair, but Maryam's mind raced ahead, a leaf on the breeze. Every few moments her hand would drift to her bag to check the clock on her reader; she pulled it back each time, breaking into a run for a few steps, before returning to her purposeful stride. She did not like being late, though she had trouble saying why. Besides, Daoud would wait for her if she was a few minutes late. He'd wait even if I was an hour late. She blushed, clutching her coat more closely to her chest. Hakimi's son. How had Pearson known? Khalila? The hospital was a gossip factory. Maybe everyone knows. His interest was getting more obvious recently, more difficult to ignore. If she really wanted to ignore it.

She pulled her hand back again and skipped ahead a few more paces. Perhaps she should have left earlier. And miss the chance to see a bone set? An injury rarely seen in the maternity ward. Besides, skipping the ER would not have escaped Pearson's eye. Lying to her father had been hard enough. He thought she was staying with Yasmina, just as Yasmina's father thought his daughter was with her. Whereas in fact...

She looked up, and there he was. Slight of build, slight of bearing; a touch overdressed, and a touch unkempt; taller than her by a hair, though perhaps still short of his full growth. This was Daoud, the son of Hakimi.

"You’re late," he smiled.

"Sorry." She kept her eyes down modestly.

"It's all right. With the car, we might still be early."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You brought the car?"

Now it was his turn to look abashed. The meeting was only a few kilometers away, so a car was quite unnecessary... unless you were trying to impress a girl. It wasn't really Daoud's car; it was his father's, but it was an old Korean model, from before the hudna. It took both money and connections to keep such vehicles running.

He held the door open for her, and she climbed in—with a wry grin to tell him she'd seen right through him—but he shrugged it off and clambered into the driver's seat. The engine shook to life, and off they went.

"Does your father know you took the car?" she asked.

"Oh, I just told him I was moon-struck over a pretty face, and wanted to drive around in case I should see her. For some reason he believed me." Was he leering? She punched him in the shoulder to be safe.

"Hey, stop that!" he exclaimed as the car swerved ever so slightly. Now she was satisfied.

They drove a few minutes through the emptying streets, the two pools of light from the headlights blindly groping ahead of them. A block from Ibrahim’s place, Daoud killed the lights and pulled into an alley. Driving up in a car was hardly discreet. Ibrahim was two years older and had a job at the mill, which meant he could rent a small apartment with a couple of roommates. But the roommates would be absent tonight. Or so she had been assured.

They got out of the car. Daoud wrapped his coat about her shoulders and took her by the arm.

“Daoud?” She stopped him before the first step. We haven’t broken any rules yet. “Are you sure about this?” At some point her heart had started hammering against the inside of her breast.

Patience and exasperation warred across his face. The thought occurred to her—again—that he was only here because of her. "Do you want to sew hijabs all your life?" he asked. "Let’s just go and listen. At worst, you’ll have a dumb story to tell your grandchildren." He put on his grin again. "I mean our grandchildren."

Maryam rolled her eyes and slapped his hand away, striding past him towards Ibrahim's house. Already counting our grandchildren, is he? However mad this folly, it was also a way out.

###

The door was snatched open, and Ibrahim's unfamiliar face ushered them in. "You're Daoud?" he asked, receiving a nod in reply. "And you're the girl." His eyes narrowed as they fell on her bag. "What's in there? Is there a phone?"

"My name is Maryam," she said calmly, "and what I have in my bag is none of your business."

"I've got to check it. I promised I would check everyone. Come on, come on."

Daoud's touch on her arm was light but it served as a reminder. She’d agreed to all this, hadn’t she? So what if it felt silly.

Out came her nurse's smock, and the white headscarf she was obliged to wear at the hospital; then the black one she had pulled off just after leaving, then her school reader, battered and cracked before any of her brothers had handled it, and—

"I think that's enough." She snatched her makeup purse from his hands before it had even left the bag.

"All right, all right.” He ran his hands through his hair as she started to put things back. He did not seem any calmer. His words ticked out of him like a sewing machine, a speech rehearsed a dozen times. "If all goes well, you disperse as you came. If a patrol stops you, tell them the story we prepared. You know the story, right?" Daoud hesitated, and Ibrahim kept going. "If a patrol comes here, scatter in twos and threes—same sex only. If you're asked, this was a mixed hookah party. No alcohol, no hash. Got it?"

Daoud's nod echoed hers. A mixed party meant trouble with their parents, but not with the law. An indiscretion, but common enough to deflect further questions. Still, she did not want to think of her father's reaction if a Sharia patrol escorted her home from a mixed party when she was supposed to be at Yasmina's. At best, it would mean an end to volunteering at the hospital. At worst... it could mean a choice between apprenticeship and marriage. She was careful to keep her eyes away from Daoud.

The living room was shuttered, dim, and almost empty as they walked in. A few water pipes were conspicuously placed on knee-high tables, with seating cushions scattered about. Not much of a party. They exchanged tense greetings with the few occupants who had preceded them, and with the rest as they trickled in. Some she recognized from school, though they had already left a year or two before. Education was a luxury, and worthless at that; her parents had wanted her out last summer, but she had gotten her way.

Yasmina's cousin—Amana?—came in, followed by Yasmina herself, all hushed giggles as she tiptoed over to Maryam. "Do you know they've got a lookout at the corner?" she whispered in her ear as she hugged her in greeting. "And another one on the roof! He was being careful, but I could see him."

Maryam smiled. It's all just a grand adventure for her. "You always could spot your man, no matter how hard he tried to hide from you."

She got a playful snort in reply. "Speaking of picking out guys..." Yasmina's head turned as she scanned the room. "Didn't you say Daoud was going to bring you?"

Trust Little Miss Gossip to bring up the last subject she wanted to discuss. "He didn't bring me, I came by myself." Well, mostly. "He just drove me the last few blocks to show off."

"What? The two of you were alone in his car again?"

Maryam felt herself blushing as Yasmina started to make kissing faces. As if Daoud would start pawing at her when no one else was looking.

"Oh, be quiet." A gentle nudge in the ribs shut her down. People were starting to look at them. "He's not like that." She kept her face calm as her friend got herself under control. Yasmina's laughter could be infectious.

"Ah, Maryam, if I had a banker's son driving me wherever I wanted, I'd be married after three rides!"

Maryam shook her head gravely. "It usually takes more than three rides to get pregnant."

That sent Yasmina into convulsions of laughter, with Maryam following soon after. People were eyeing them now, as if they were unruly schoolgirls. Which they were, truth be told. Without Yasmina, school would have been impossible. They endured the boring classes together at the back of the classroom—they got more Koran and Shaheeds than either of them could stomach—and enjoyed the good ones together. They were still chatting in a corner when a hush smothered the room. She glanced around for Daoud briefly, but Ibrahim's voice interrupted. "Form a line. Stand up, stand up. We talked about this."

She jerked to her feet, pulling Yasmina with her. Guiltily, they took their place at the end. A man had come in from somewhere deeper in the apartment. From her corner, she could make out none of his features, but his presence filled the room. The Envoy. He walked slowly down the line, raising each face in turn to meet his eyes, running his fingers behind ears and over eyebrows. The motion of his hand as he tilted each chin left and right conveyed a rugged strength held precisely in check. He's looking for cyberfeeds, she realized. That was foolish. Only Saudis could afford cyberfeeds. It's just another silly spy-game. Yasmina's arm tensed beside her as the man approached; Maryam gripped it with hers as the stranger's eyes bored into her friend's pupils.

Once, as a child, a snake had found its way into her bedroom. She could still remember her father turning over toys with a long stick in one hand, while the other held a cudgel poised to strike. It's not a game to him. She could feel Yasmina relax beside her as he finished his examination. I'm next. Her mouth was dry.

The man's fingers were rough, but his touch gentle as he lifted her chin. He's taller than I thought. She could not tell the color of his eyes, but they were piercing, even in the half-light, and his rugged jaw was perfectly shaven. He wore a rough-spun shirt with a collar, top button open. The fabric was stretched slightly over—

Her thoughts were interrupted as he raised her chin once more. Looking at his shoulders? She jerked her gaze back up where it belonged. I will not blush. She met his eyes by force of will until he released his grip and moved back towards the center of the group. She exhaled slowly. Absently, she noted that he had forgotten to check behind her ears.

"Young." The first word seemed to hold back a thousand. "But not too young. You start things early here, don't you?" The man's eyes scanned each of them up and down. "Almost ready to take up your fathers' work. What do they teach you to do here?" Maryam eyed her friend askance; Yasmina returned the look. The man gave a grin. "Come on, I don't bite."

"Mining?" offered a boy from the other end of the room. When no bite materialized, other voices joined in.

"Farming."

"Hunting."

"Sewing."

He raised a hand, and the babble cut off sharply. "And are you content to spend your lives doing this?" He scanned the line again, focusing only on the eyes. "Are your fathers content?"

"There's nothing wrong with honest work." Maryam was surprised to hear herself speaking aloud. Many eyes turned towards her. Gulp. "It puts food on the table." A comforting murmur of assent failed to materialize.

"Your miners"—the word was laden with something unfamiliar—"break down the houses of your ancestors to sell bits of metal to Saudis. Your hunters put venison on Saudi plates in your restaurants. How many of you see meat on your table every night?" There was something odd about the way the man spoke, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "Your tailors sew Saudi clothes, so Saudi men can bring little gifts to their wives. Your farmers keep you from starving while you do these things."

"We're not starving."

Maryam felt an absurd relief to hear other people speak up.

"We can feed ourselves. And there's nothing wrong with free trade." That might have been Daoud's voice.

The Envoy spoke over them. "I can buy one of your hijabs in the Caliphate. I bought one last month. It cost two dinars. Do you know how much two dinars is?" There came a short hiss, which had to be Daoud. Only he would know. The sound made her hackles rise. "I can get eighty of your dollars for that." Maryam's eyes shifted to Yasmina's; she wondered if hers were as wide. Two weeks' wages for an hour's work. The man was still talking, though; her ears scrambled to catch up. "... but the steel trade is even worse. Saudis have murdered each other to gain the concession. Three years selling your scraps makes a man rich for life. That's honest work for you."

How can he know this? Where does he come from? The questions tumbled in Maryam's mind. Not just hers; a rumble had risen in the room. She stepped back, eyes finding Daoud halfway down the line, but he was locked in an argument with two other boys.

Yasmina asked her, "Do you think it's true?"

Maryam could only shake her head. "I don't know."

"It's not what I expected."

"I know, right? The English Society? I thought he'd be talking about... other things." What had she expected?

He clapped his hands a few times to silence the chatter. "All right, you can do the math. They've taught you that much, at any rate." His first words were hard to hear over the chatter, but the last were spoken into a tense silence. "You're all done with school, or nearly so. Studied hard, I expect, and loved every minute." His vowels are different. It was obvious now that she had noticed it. "You probably even remember a thing or two. The important things, anyway. Who knows Al-Fatiha?" His lips were pulled into a crooked smile, cruel and sad together. "Come on, I don't bite."

A few hands rose, then the rest joined them, as each boy or girl struggled between admitting knowledge and confessing ignorance.

"All of you. Of course. And who knows the five pillars?"

Everyone knew that.

"Who knows the shahada?"

What’s his point?

"Who here knows the difference between Zakat and Jizya?"

A hand or two wavered, then borrowed some resolve from their neighbors.

"Who here actually is a Muslim?"

Maryam's hand flew to her mouth, too late to cut off the strangled sound her throat had produced. The other hands descended one by one, as the minds that professed to control them digested what their ears had heard. Nobody asked that! Not so crudely, anyway. You could tell, of course, even if the other person wasn't being obvious about it. Certain questions carefully phrased, certain jokes laughed at a little too long. You could always tell, if you were careful. Everyone was careful. Maybe he's crazy.

The envoy had started pacing. "So. None of you are Muslim. But you look like Muslims, do you know that?" He stopped in front of a boy who had the misfortune of arriving in a Saudi headdress. He lifted a finger to the offending article. "What's this?"

Maryam’s ears strained, but the reply was too subdued.

"I know what it is. Why do you wear it? Did your father wear it?"

"No." She could hear him that time.

"Does it protect you from the burning November sun?"

A shake of the head.

"Does it impress the girls?" There was no answer.

"Then why do you wear it?"

It would impress some girls, to be honest. Lawyers and judges wore those headdresses, and you could get a scholarship to study law if you were good. A judge's wife lived comfortably... but he would have to convert to get a good posting. She did not follow that train of thought.

"You." That finger had found another victim, a little bit closer to her position. "Do you pray five times a day? But you've got a prayer mat at home, don't you?" A nod. "Why?" His pacing now brought him uncomfortably close. His eyes wandered to hers, then slid back to Yasmina. "You. Do you wear a hijab when you go outside? A headscarf?"

Her friend's eyes flashed to her a look of pure misery. "Sometimes."

"And when you don't, you always have it in your bag, so you can pretend you just forgot?"

Yasmina's eyes were fixed on the floor. The man's questions dug at their hearts like a pickaxe and had now rung hollow against a secret buried deep.

"All you girls wear a headscarf. I've seen it in the streets. Why?" He crooked his neck, as if to pry Yasmina's eyes out of the floor. Leave her alone!

"Maybe I wear it because it's cold." Maryam had not wanted to speak up again, but no one else was going to do it.

The man's eyes did not slide away from her this time. "You could wear a hat. Instead, you wear a scarf, carefully folded to hide the shoulders, neck, ears, and hair in a manner approved by every imam from Al-Andalus to the Empire. Why?"

She was sure her ears were burning. "My grandmother knitted it for me. Maybe I just like it? Did you think of that?"

"Maybe you do," he said, turning away. "But you were not wearing it when you came in."

She pulled her mouth shut. She had more to say, but not to the back of his head. He had started down the line again, poking people with his questions, forcing them to face their answers. Yasmina was rubbing an eye with a sleeve, and not for the first time. I'm angry, she thought suddenly. Not just her. The murmur had returned, bubbling like a pot in the fireplace. Boys argued in hushed tones, and girls commiserated in whispers. Some rose to answer the man on his own terms; he dismissed each challenge with a barb, leaving them to brew in their resentment. What a jerk. The room was about to boil, she realized. He's doing it on purpose.

"You are not Muslims." He had turned to face them all, arms wide. "Yet you dress like them, learn their history, recite their prayers. Why?"

"Learning about other cultures is part of our education." She stepped in front of Yasmina, but no one was standing in line anymore. "We're not barbarians, despite what you think."

"Not barbarians." He seemed to be chewing the words. Perhaps she had taken him by surprise. "Do you think a girl your age in the Caliphate spends half her life learning about your ways?"

"No, but—"

"Are you suggesting she's a barbarian?"

"That's—! You're—"

"Can you even tell me what your ways are? Do they have a name? Do you have a name?"

Her mouth was dry again. Words kept slipping away.

"The girl in the Caliphate has a name for you. Do you know what it is?"

She knew the answer to that one, but she did not want to say it. His face filled her vision. She would not say it. The man just would not let her speak. Or think.

"Kuffar."

Maryam did not know who had whispered it. Another blow had struck against that hollow box. She could not pull her eyes away.

"Kuffar. Unbelievers. That is all you are to them. And yet you wear their clothes and read their books and call yourselves by their names. Why? I will tell you why."

There was no way to stop him. "Five generations ago, your leaders signed a Hudna with the Caliphate and brought peace to the conquered lands. Every ten years it is renewed. And every ten years, Islam encroaches more upon you. You have no laws forbidding a woman to walk unveiled in public, yet patrols will send you home if you bare your head. Your schools claim to prepare you for life, but when you graduate, all you can do is recite the names of Arabs." His face had become a scowl, as though he was reaching down deeper to find the words. "Your laws go back two thousand years, yet half your judges are converts, and all their rulings quote Sharia. Why? You are afraid."

The word hit them with the force of a hammer crashing through a rotten plank.

"Your parents are afraid. Your leaders are afraid. Afraid of doing what you want. Afraid of asking questions. Afraid of giving offense. Afraid that someone, somewhere, might take offense. Afraid the Hudna will slip from your grasp, and the Bombings will start again."

There it was. Light shone on that ugly, slimy, wriggling thing hidden in a box buried forever under the hard clay of their hearts. But he was not done. "You will not even name your fear. You will not even name yourselves. Does anyone here know who you are?"

Maryam blinked in confusion. Someone else chose to answer. "We're kuffar. You said it yourself."

His hand dismissed that name. "That is what they call you. What do you call yourselves? What should you call yourselves?"

"We're Meddies." The nickname produced a universal giggle.

The boy with the headdress spoke up. Without the headdress. "You could also say we're Americans." That produced some nodding.

"Medford is a place, not a people. America was a state, an idea, a political system." A circle had formed around the stranger; he turned to each of them, hand held out to clutch a space just beyond his chin. "It lived three hundred years and died three hundred years ago. Look deeper into yourselves! Who are you?"

No one was trying to answer that. She hoped she didn't look as perplexed as Yasmina. Bewildered, even. A glint of lust gleamed in the man's eye. He's been building up to this moment. He must have given this speech a hundred times. There was something wrong about this, about all of this.

"You are Englishmen, though you have forgotten this truth; forgotten even what it means—"

English-men. Wait a minute. She made sure her tone was even. "If Medford is just a place, then English is just a language. You—"

"Do you think a language means so little? The Muslims don't. They teach you the Koran in Arabic, don't they?" He thinks he has an answer for everything. "The Koran's always in Arabic. Language is Culture." He turned to address everyone again. "When you give your word, is it sacred? When you make a mistake, do you apologize or do you bluff to keep face? If you're alone with a girl, do you show respect or take advantage? Do you marry your girlfriends or your father’s nieces? Do you—"

The door swung open, and Ibrahim scrambled in. "Alfred, there's a car. There's a car. It's gone around the block three times. It's a patrol. It must be a patrol." She had not thought to see him even more nervous than when she had entered.

Alfred—his real name?—rested a hand on his shoulder. "I will be brief. Keep watch until I disperse them." After a moment, Ibrahim nodded and left.

"Listen closely. There is no time." The group huddled around him. A pure light of concentration shone from his eyes. He thinks himself a prophet!

"If you would live without fear, you must become Englishmen again. I may have to disappear for a while until I can contact you again. Take these." He pushed a double handful of black, palm-sized rectangles towards them. They started to pass them out amongst themselves.

"Alfred..." came Ibrahim's wavering voice.

Alfred took a deep breath, and the words poured out of him. "This is a book that our ancestors used to carry with them. Read it, memorize it. Hide it. Choose English names and use them." What? "There is a land where Englishmen can live without fear. In a year, or two years, I will come back for you, or another will. You must prepare yourselves. Study useful skills. Help each other. Be ready when the time comes."

Ibrahim burst into the room. "They're crossing the street, Alfred, you have to go!"

Someone rushed to throw open the nearest windows, and everyone moved at once. A call came, "Does anyone have a car?" Daoud stepped forward. Someone else started shouting instructions.

"Remember this—" Alfred’s voice cut through the commotion, and the mass of agitated humanity froze in mid-stride. "The Bombs are gone, and they cannot make any more. Now go. Go!"

The window was hardly a meter off the ground, but Maryam’s foot landed on Yasmina’s, knocking them both down. She bit off a cry as pain lanced through her right ankle. Yasmina and Amana pulled her to her feet, and they hobbled off together. Her hand still clutched that small rectangle. They were dispersing in twos and threes. There was no sign of Daoud. He'll manage, she told herself. He has the least to worry about of any of us.

A few excruciating minutes later, she had to stop. “Give me a second,” she said. They set her down on a low stone wall. The others had dispersed, and there was no sign of pursuit. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“My home is just a kilometer away,” said Amana. “You can stay with me.”

“All right.” She examined her ankle. Not broken. She would need to tie it up if she wanted to walk that far, though. Absently, she rummaged through her bag.

"Wasn't that exciting!" Yasmina hadn't even caught her breath and she was already reliving it. "Just like in some story! A handsome stranger, dark and mysterious..."

"He wasn't dark at all," replied Maryam through clenched teeth as she tightened the first knot. "And the only mystery is from which lunatic asylum he escaped." Another knot. That should hold my weight. She still wanted to catch her breath first.

Yasmina was giggling again. "So you do think he's handsome!" Maryam blinked. And then blushed. Sometimes the problem lay in what went unspoken.

Amana was more somber. “We almost got caught.”

“It was just bad luck,” Yasmina said.

“No,” said Maryam, a frown settling upon her face. “Someone must have told them.” This was what they should have been discussing. “But from the outside, it was just a hookah party. No one ever calls a patrol for that.” The words spilled out as soon as the key points aligned in her mind. “Ibrahim’s got too much to lose. It must have been someone who was planning to show up but got cold feet. Or got discovered.” Of course, that would make even more sense.

“What’s gotten into her?” asked Amana.

“She loves puzzles. Hey, Maryam, snap out of it.”

“We can figure this out,” said Maryam, ignoring her. The pieces were falling into place. “All the kids our age there knew Daoud, and the rest were from Amana’s class. If she makes a few inquiries, we can get a complete list of everyone who was invited, and we’ll know who didn’t show up.” Another piece clicked. “It’s probably someone who’s got a lot of friends who’ve gone—what?” Amana and Yasmina wore identical grins. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Amana’s grin blossomed into a smile.

“We’re not going to figure it out here, though, are we?” asked Yasmina.

“I suppose not,” said Maryam, an odd feeling of embarrassment suffusing her.

“Come on, let’s see what we got,” said Yasmina.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s see what he gave us!”

The book. Alfred.

Maryam brought out the black, palm-sized rectangle that Alfred had pushed into her hands. They gazed at it in silence for a moment. Relics of our ancestors. The words would sound flippant if she spoke them aloud, but in her thoughts it was different.

It was a book. That she recognized at once. A real book. Not a reader keyed to a text, not a portable drive for downloading. A small, black, paper-and-cardboard rectangle, with no words on the outside to hint at its contents. A book without council approval, which could be read without being logged or traced. She flipped it open.

“A Treasury?”

“What?”

“Here.”

“Who’s Palgrave?”

“Someone dead.”

“How do you know?”

“Look.” Maryam pointed at a date. “Six hundred years ago. She turned another page, stiff and crisp and new. The words were old, not the paper. She flipped a dozen pages forward before Yasmina could grab it from her, and they all squinted in the moonlight.

“I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,” Yasmina read, and cut off abruptly. They all scanned the page madly. Thou needest not fear mine.

“It’s poetry,” said Amana.

“Love poetry,” said Yasmina.

Maryam stared. A sense of unreality struck her. "That’s crazy.”

“It’s true,” said Yasmina. She seemed poleaxed. “He gave you a book of love poems. What’s Daoud going to say?”

Amana finally grabbed the book and opened it at random. "It's not just love poems.” Her finger scanned the page, and they read together. The giggles vanished; a delicate silence descended. Nor England, did I know till then... Maryam eyed Yasmina uneasily. The words were English, though some were unfamiliar and some were strangely spelled. But their ideas... Yasmina could not have looked more distrustful if the book had asked her where she lived and what time she usually came home.

Amana kept on reading. "This one's really sad. It's not a love poem at all." She flipped a few pages. No one was trying to snatch the book any more. "It's like there's a poem for every occasion, happy or not." She eyed it askance. Oh, they had read poems in school—mostly translated from Arabic, of course. She turned another page. There's so many of them.

Maryam took the book back, fingers holding it firmly shut. A poem for every occasion. In English. By Englishmen. A shiver ran through her. "Maybe he brought the wrong bag of books."

Amana pulled her own out and flipped through its pages as if some answer were hidden between them. "No, the book makes sense. That's what I thought we were going to talk about. The Society for the Preservation of English Culture. They're the ones who sent him, remember? The book makes sense. The rest... it's like it's completely disconnected."

"He thinks they're connected," Maryam said slowly. Language and Culture. Maybe there was a method to the madness.

But it was time to go. She packed the book back in her bag—deep in her bag—and put her arms around her friends' shoulders. The first step produced a twinge, but she could manage. She looked down. The dressing was tight. The dressing was—

The dressing was her headscarf. Her black headscarf, which her grandmother had knitted for her. Maybe I like my headscarf, she had said. Maybe you do, he had answered. Maybe he wasn't so mad, after all.

"So, Amana…"—Yasmina’s smile had returned—"If you were Maryam here, which one would you choose?" What were they talking about?

Amana laughed. "The boy's too young for me, I'm afraid. I'll have to settle for the dashing adventurer." It seemed she was willing to accept that painful compromise.

"Will you two stop that?!"

"Stop what?" Yasmina was all wide-eyed innocence, but Amana stopped suddenly, bringing them all to a halt.

"She doesn't know!"

Maryam was about to strangle them with her shoelaces, ankle or no ankle. "Know what?"

"He spent about three times as long checking your eyes than anyone else's."

"He did not!"

Yasmina laughed. "You should have seen Daoud's face. Green as a dollar.”

"You liars!"

"Didn't you notice he ignored you all evening?"

"I was chatting with Yasmina! Will you stop that giggling?"

She hobbled on into the night, supported by her raving lunatics. If I could walk on my own, I'd slap some sense into them. Why she ever listened to Yasmina, she couldn't say. But he did forget to check behind my ears.