Someone was slapping the Jinni’s face. He opened his eyes and saw Conroy standing over him, blood trickling from his scalp.
So it was real. The truth of it hit him full on, the remorseless knowledge of what he’d done. He turned onto his side and curled around the pain, as he’d done on the bloodstained floor of his palace, a thousand years before.
He heard women screaming. There were shouts for a policeman, a fire engine. “Ahmad,” Conroy was saying urgently. “Come on, boyo. Get up.” Someone else groaned from close nearby. The wizard.
The Jinni lurched to his feet, swaying against Conroy. Fragments of glass slid tinkling from his clothing, joining the shards that carpeted the tiny shop. The old man lay slumped next to a display case, his body dusted with glass and tobacco. The Jinni grabbed him, dragged him up off the floor.
“Release me!” he shouted.
The old man’s head lolled on his neck. It would be so very easy to kill him, only a quick motion, one hand to his bare throat—a fitting end, after what he’d done to Fadwa!
But the binding between them would still remain; and tomorrow, in some distant land, another child would be born. . . .
With a cry of anguish and frustration, the Jinni dropped Schaalman to the ground. The old man crumpled to the floorboards, his head knocking the side of the tobacco display.
Conroy’s hand was on his arm. “The police will be here any moment,” he said. If he felt any alarm at the Jinni’s ill treatment of a small and elderly man, he didn’t show it.
The Jinni glanced about at the shattered windows and the crowd that had gathered outside. The prostitutes from upstairs had all run panicked into the street, in various states of undress. Conroy’s men were forming a cordon in front of the door, holding everyone back as they tried to surge forward. “The police,” he said. “Your shop.” Distantly he recalled that he’d gone there intending to rob the man.
“Don’t worry about me,” Conroy said. “The constables and I have a long history together. But what about our friend here? What’s to be done with him?”
The Jinni looked down at the old man sprawled on the floor. Fire to flesh, he thought, soul to soul, for as long as you shall live. . . .
He knew what it was he had to do.
“This man is dangerous, and a murderer,” he said to Conroy. “He killed a girl I once knew. She was only fifteen years old.” He wavered, braced himself against a countertop. “I can’t let the police find me here. There’s something I need to do. To set things right.”
Conroy eyed the Jinni for a moment, considering. Then he leaned down and punched the unconscious Schaalman across the face.
“The constables will deal with him,” said the fence. “And as far as I’m concerned you were never here. Go, now. Out the back.”
Until the moment of the blast, Saleh had been roaming the Bowery sidewalks, wondering how long he could pretend to himself that he was not in fact looking for the Jinni. He gazed into a thousand faces, grinning with delight at each and receiving a few suspicious looks in return; still, none had that familiar glow, like a shaded lamp. But would Saleh still recognize the glowing man, now that his vision was restored?
He was looking about with growing agitation when the explosion rang through the street. He felt it a moment later: a wave of pressure against his back, knocking him forward. All gasped and turned, then cried out at the falling glass.
He ran forward with the surging crowd. It was a tobacconist’s shop, nondescript, and he could see no one inside—but still, could he not guess? After the day’s events, it could hardly be a coincidence. He strained to see over the heads of the hard-looking men who’d formed a protective chain, pushing them back. The crowd was calling out for the authorities, buzzing excitedly about bombs and anarchists. A half-naked woman fell against him; he put out a hand to steady her, and she slapped it away.
There: at the alley entrance. It was the Jinni—who, Saleh saw with surprise, still glowed, if only barely. Some part of his illness still remained, then; or perhaps it was a permanent remnant, like a pox mark.
The Jinni was covered with what looked like powdered glass, which added its own eerie shimmer to his appearance. Saleh watched as he cut through the crowd and headed south, away from the fracas. Instead of his usual arrogant bearing, he seemed unsteady, even haunted.
What else could Saleh do but follow?
For the most part, the Chrystie Street tenements were still asleep as the Jinni passed them by, the gray facades stony in their silence. As he walked his new memories rose up and threatened to crush him. It seemed impossible: if a passerby had whispered the name Fadwa al-Hadid in his ear only an hour earlier, he’d have had no inkling of its significance.
There was little time. He knew that neither Conroy nor the police could hold Schaalman for long. Even this small errand was a luxury he probably couldn’t afford. But he had made a promise once, in a glittering gas-lit ballroom, and he meant to keep it.
He found the tenement, walked down the noxious hallway to the windowless, claustrophobic room, and knocked on the door. “Anna, please,” he told the half-awake girl who answered it.
A minute later Anna slipped out into the hallway, scowling, arms folded above her burgeoning stomach; but when she saw his expression, her own turned apprehensive. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I apologize for waking you,” he said to her. “But I need you to deliver a message.”
He left Anna’s tenement and walked into the slowly brightening day. Overhead, the morning’s first trains creaked uptown, shedding the evening’s soot onto the streets below. He would have preferred to walk, but the Second Avenue Elevated would be faster.
He was almost at the Grand Street platform when he realized he’d been hearing the same pair of footsteps behind him for blocks. He whipped around, and a familiar figure busied itself at a nearby milliner’s window, as though admiring the summer fashions. The Jinni waited, half-amused, until the man at last gave up the pretense.
“I was better at following you when I couldn’t see,” Saleh said. “Now everything is a distraction.”
The Jinni looked him over. The man’s clothes were as awful as ever, but there was a new straightness and energy to his figure, as though he no longer gazed at the world slantwise. “What’s happened to you?” the Jinni asked.
Saleh shrugged. “Perhaps I simply recovered from my illness.”
“I told you, that was no illness.”
“Then call it an injury.”
“Saleh, why are you following me?”
“There’s a man looking for you,” the man said. “I don’t think he means you well.”
“I know,” the Jinni said. “He already found me.”
“At the tobacconist’s?”
“You were there?”
“I was in the mood for a walk.”
The Jinni snorted. “And will you go home again, now that you’ve delivered your belated news? Or would you prefer to shadow me throughout the city?”
“That depends. Are you going somewhere interesting?”
The Jinni had meant to make the trip alone. But now he thought that perhaps this man’s company would not be so onerous.
“Do you remember when I took you on the Elevated?” he asked.
“Not well. I wasn’t at my best that night.”
“Then you should ride it again.”
The creaking train drew to a halt and Saleh stepped into the near-empty car, gazing around with nervous excitement. The Jinni couldn’t help but smile, watching him. No doubt the wizard had something to do with the man’s recovery, the removal of the spark from his mind; but the Jinni didn’t intend to press him for details. It hardly mattered, as long as the man didn’t try to stop him.
They sat near the back. Saleh jumped as the train took off with its customary jolt. The Jinni watched the familiar terrain as it rushed by, catching glimpses of the city’s morning tableau: children dashing across the rooftops, couples drinking tea at their windows. His face spasmed once in sorrow; he closed his eyes, leaned back his head.
“May I ask where we’re going?” Saleh said.
“Central Park,” replied the Jinni. “I’m meeting a woman there.”
Radzin’s Bakery was an eerie place at four in the morning. The Golem let herself in with the key Mrs. Radzin had given her for emergencies and bolted the door behind her. She knew every pace of the floor, could have made the morning’s breads with her eyes closed; yet in the darkness the bakery felt ominous. The familiar worktables stood aloof and tomblike. Streetlight shone through the empty display case, illuminating ghostly handprints.
There’d been nowhere else for her to go. Her home was no longer hers—and she couldn’t risk meeting Michael again, not in his current state. Perhaps she’d never see him again. The Rabbi, the Jinni, Anna, and now Michael, all gone from her life.
From her cloak she took the burnt sheaf of pages she’d stolen from Michael’s desk. She placed it on her worktable and stared at it. She wanted to run, as far away from it as she could. She wanted to thrust it into the oven and forget she’d ever found it.
Joseph Schall was her creator. Again she saw the sleek, almost preening smile, felt the sinister void in his mind.
Even if she burned the pages to cinders, she wouldn’t soon forget the grocery list of Rotfeld’s desires in a wife. It was edifying, in a sense, to see her own origins, but at the same time she felt humiliated, reduced to nothing more than words. The request for modest behavior, for example: it rankled her to think of her arguments with the Jinni on the subject, how fervently she’d defended an opinion she’d had no choice but to believe. And if she was meant to be curious, did that mean she could take no credit for her own discoveries, her accomplishments? Had she nothing of her own, only what Joseph Schall decreed she should have? And yet, if Rotfeld had lived, she would have been more than content!
She will make him an admirable wife, if she doesn’t destroy him first. So he’d known the danger, and built her anyway. All else she might be able to understand someday, but this? What sort of man created a murderous creature, and called it fine? The Rabbi had said it himself, the day they met: Whoever made you was brilliant, and reckless, and quite amoral.
He’d hidden himself in the Sheltering House, in plain sight. He’d walked her down her boardinghouse staircase, led her like a parent to her groom. Had he known Rotfeld was dead, and followed her to America simply to toy with her, to lurk sadistic and grinning at the edges of her life? Why else would Michael have Schall’s spells, if Schall had not given him them, so that Michael might discover the truth?
And now the spells were hers. She wondered what form Joseph Schall’s anger would take when he found them missing. But then, perhaps she could wield his own weapon against him. The spells were Schall’s, yes, and he had done terrible things with them—but they could not be evil on their own, no more than, say, a knife that might be used to slice bread as well as injure a man. All must depend on the wielder, and the intent.
Hesitantly she began to turn the pages. She found a diagram Schall had drawn, describing how to hide one’s thoughts: so that question, at least, was answered. Another formula described a process for erasing oneself from another’s memory, and this one raised possibilities. With it, she could make Schall forget she existed. She imagined him wandering the city bewildered, wondering what had possessed him to leave Europe. As a solution, it held a certain elegance; it even avoided violence. Likely it was more than he deserved.
A thought struck her, and she hesitated over the formula, considering. Could she remove herself from Michael’s mind as well? Maybe it would be a kindness to make him forget he’d ever had a wife, to soothe away his fearful vision of her, the dark and hulking monster. Without her, Michael could go back to being the man she’d once met, weary but optimistic, bent on improving his small corner of the world. What better use for Joseph Schall’s knowledge than to undo the damage that his creation had caused?
A bud of hope, so long absent, began to grow inside her, fed by the prospect of correcting her mistakes. On the next page, she found a charm for healing the injured, with nothing but an herb and a touch. She could find Irving Wasserman, repair the harm she’d done to him. The thought made her feel almost physically lighter. She could find Anna as well, and remove her memory of that night. But then, might Anna reunite with Irving, without the memory to warn her away? Already she could see the risk of unintended consequences. On another page she found instructions labeled To Influence Another’s Thoughts. Well, here was the solution! She would convince Anna that the man was not right for her—certainly this was the truth!—and perhaps steer her toward more sensible conduct in the future.
She turned more pages. To Erase Love’s Infatuation, she read, and thought of all those dejected souls who’d passed under her window, trapped in unrequited longings. To Create Abundant Sustenance: no need to steal knishes, when she could feed the hungry from thin air! To Locate a Person’s Whereabouts, To Attract Good Fortune—the list went on, deluging her in possibilities. She marveled at how much pain she could remove from the world. And Joseph Schall had thought only to create golems!
What of the Jinni? Could she remove his pain as well? She flipped the pages, searching. Perhaps she could unlock the cuff on his wrist, and release him from his bonds. But then, if he were freed, would he be content to stay? No, of course not: she would regain him for only the briefest of moments, and then he would leave her, abandoning the city and returning home. The thought wrenched her. She imagined him wandering the desert, searching always for the next distraction. Even released from his bonds, he would be no more at peace. He would carry his longings and dissatisfactions with him; in this he was no different from anyone else.
But now she could change him! She could make him content to stay in New York, content even with the life of a human. Would it not be a kindness, an act of love, to remove the haunted look from his eye, the bitterness from his voice? She would give him happiness, true happiness—such as she herself had once felt—
No.
With an effort she flung the stack of papers away. They fluttered apart and scattered to the floor, stirring up tiny whirlwinds of flour.
The tide of her exhilaration drained from her, leaving her exhausted and heartsick. She would have bound the entire city, made them all into her golems, to satisfy her own need to be useful. She would’ve robbed the Jinni of himself, more thoroughly than the cuff on his wrist—he, who valued his freedom above all else.
She swept the pages into a pile, then rummaged in the back room for a flour sack to hide them in. Their contents were far too dangerous to contemplate using. If she must confront Joseph Schall, she would need to find another way.
There was a tap at the front door. She ignored it—customers often tried to get in early—and considered what to do next. She wanted to burn the sack and its contents to cinders, but did she have the right to destroy such knowledge, regardless of where it came from?
The tap came again, more urgent now. Irritated, she went to the door and lifted the shade—and saw a familiar woman, deeply pregnant, in a cheap and garish cloak.
“Anna?” the Golem said, astonished.
By the time Saleh and the Jinni disembarked at Fifty-seventh Street, the New York morning had well and truly begun. Each avenue was an obstacle course of grocers’ wagons and ice trucks, out on the day’s first deliveries. The oppressive heat had cleared somewhat; the horses pranced with energy, and the men at the reins whistled in piercing notes.
“I remember this neighborhood,” Saleh said as they crossed Fifth Avenue. “At least, I think I do.” He was doing his best to keep up with the Jinni, who had begun to walk with increased urgency. He’d spoken no more of his appointment, and Saleh had decided not to ask, for the morning splendor had rendered all else irrelevant. Had the sky in Homs ever been this deep, this rich a blue? It was as though the city were giving him its finest dawn, to make up for all the years of skies as gray as a chipped nickel. He remembered his patients telling him they appreciated the world anew once they were healed, a sentiment that had struck him as unbearably mawkish. But now a young girl passed by with a basket of flowers for sale, and the delicate beauty of her figure nearly made him break into tears.
They turned into the park, along the carriage drive. Already Saleh could hear the trees whispering, feel the cool breath of water in the air. It had been a day since he’d truly slept or eaten, but for the moment his fatigue was a minor matter, easy to ignore. The odd carriage passed them once or twice, but it was too early for the usual park-goers: the working classes were readying for the day, and the more genteel pedestrians were still abed. For the most part, it seemed, they had the place to themselves.
The Jinni glanced across at his companion as they walked. “You’ve said little,” he remarked.
“I’ve been appreciating the morning.”
The Jinni glanced upward, as though noticing the fine weather for the first time. He did not smile, but seemed pleased nonetheless.
Saleh gazed at the buildings that rimmed the park, rising above the trees. “I like this view better than last time,” he said.
The Jinni smiled thinly. “As you said, you weren’t at your best.”
Saleh thought of the mansion on Fifth Avenue, the frost-rimed garden. “I believe you were visiting a woman that night, as well.”
“A different woman,” the Jinni said. Something seemed to occur to him, then. He paused, shook his head as though ashamed, and then said, “Should you ever find yourself there again, I’d appreciate it if you called on Sophia Winston and conveyed my apologies. For my behavior.”
“Me?” The image of himself knocking at the mansion’s gigantic front door made him want to laugh. Did the Jinni realize he didn’t even speak English? “Is there anyone else to whom I should make your apologies?”
“Oh, many others. But I’ll burden you only with Sophia.”
From the carriage drive, they turned onto a broad path overarched by rows of gigantic, sheltering trees. They passed statuary of serious-faced men—poets or philosophers, judging by the books and quills they held, their plaintive eyes cast heavenward. Their sculpted faces jogged Saleh’s memory, and he pulled the small silver figurine from his pocket. “I found this in your room,” he said. “It intrigued me.” He held it out, but the Jinni said, “Keep it. The silver has value, at least.”
“You’d have me melt it down?”
“It’s a failure,” the Jinni said. “There’s no likeness.”
“There’s some,” Saleh said. “And why must there be a likeness? Perhaps it’s a portrait of an entirely new animal.”
The Jinni snorted at this.
The rows of trees seemed to be ending; before them the path dipped to a set of stairs that ran below a bridge. And beyond the bridge, Saleh could now see a figure rising, coming clearer with each step: a statue of a woman, her head bowed in shadow between an outstretched pair of wings.
“I saw her that night,” he said, more to himself than his companion. “I thought she was the Angel of Death, coming for me.”
He felt the Jinni flinch beside him. He turned, a question forming on his lips—and glimpsed the Jinni’s rising fist, and beyond it his faintly glowing face, his eyes full of a grim apology.
Anna was breathing hard, as though she’d been hurrying. She looked angry, stubborn, and terrified all at once. “I told myself I’d never go near you again,” she said. A pause. “Are you going to let me in?”
The Golem ushered her in and closed the door, trying to keep her distance; Anna’s fear of her was palpable.
The girl was watching her carefully. “I didn’t expect you to be here already,” she said. “I was going to wait.”
“Anna,” the Golem said, “I am so very sorry. I know it changes nothing, but—”
“Not now,” said Anna, impatient. “There’s something wrong with Ahmad.”
The Golem gaped at her. “You’ve seen him?”
“He was just at my building, with a message for you.”
“But—he came to you? How did he know where—”
“That’s not important,” Anna said quickly. She fished in her pocket and drew out a piece of paper. “I wrote down what he told me, as close as I could remember.” She held it out.
Tell Chava that she is in danger, from a man who calls himself Joseph Schall. He is her creator, and my master. It will sound impossible, but it’s true. She must get as far away from him as she can. Leave the city, if possible.
Tell her she was right. There were consequences to my actions, and I never saw them. I stole something from her once, because I wanted no harm to come to her, but I had no right to do so. Please give it back, and tell her I said good-bye.
“Here,” the girl said, and handed her another square of folded paper, one whose dimensions the Golem knew by heart. He’d stolen it from her? And he’d crossed paths with Joseph Schall, as well? She had the disorienting sense of important events happening elsewhere while her back was turned.
She replaced the square of folded paper in her locket, and then read the Jinni’s message again, trying to make sense of it. This time she saw what she’d missed in her confusion: the underlying notes of desperation and resolve. He was not simply leaving town. “Oh God,” she said, aghast. “Anna, did he say what he was planning?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But, Chava, he looked terrible. Like he was going to do something awful.”
To himself? she wanted to ask, but didn’t need to; Anna’s mind had provided the answer, in fearful visions of ropes and guns and bottles of laudanum. No, she couldn’t believe he would do such a thing—but was that why he’d returned the paper, because he’d chosen an action he’d once denied her? A breath of panic touched her. The Jinni’s veiled mind would’ve told her no more than the note—but could she not guess? It would not be poison, or a rope or a gun. It would be water.
“Which direction did he go? Was it east, toward the river?” But Anna just shook her head, baffled. It might already be too late—
The burnt pages were calling to her from inside their flour sack. Hadn’t there been a formula titled To Locate a Person’s Whereabouts? Surely she could risk using Schall’s magic, just this once! She grabbed the flour sack, was about to spill its contents onto the floor—and then stopped. Wait, she told herself. Think. The Jinni would never choose the East River docks, or the oil-stained waters of the bay, or anywhere else so inelegant. She didn’t need forbidden diagrams or formulae to tell her his destination. She knew; she knew him.
But what about the pages? She couldn’t leave them at the bakery; she needed to hide them from Schall, somewhere he’d never go. Pressing the sack into Anna’s arms, she said, “Take this, and hide it somewhere no one would think to look. A place only you know about. No, don’t tell me where, don’t even think it.”
“What? Chava, do you know how hard it is not to think about something—”
“Just don’t! Don’t look at it, and don’t tell a soul, do you understand?”
“I don’t understand any of this,” the girl said, plaintive.
“Promise me!”
“All right, I promise, if it’s that important.”
“It is,” the Golem said, relieved. “Thank you, Anna.” And then she ran: out the back door and up the fire escape to the roof, chasing after the Jinni as fast as she could.
The Jinni caught Saleh as he fell and carried him to a nearby bench: merely another vagrant, sleeping away the morning. He made certain the man was still breathing and then walked on, descending the stairway to the arched and columned darkness of the arcade. His steps echoed off the tiled walls, and then he was out in the sunlight again, crossing the terrace’s broad expanse of red brick, coming to the fountain’s rim.
The Angel of the Waters gazed down at him, patient, waiting.
The terrace was all but deserted; only a few men could be seen hurrying home after their dubious nighttime activities, using the Park as a shortcut. Hat brims low over their faces, they walked with that hunched defiance against sleep that the Golem had once remarked on. They would not pose a problem.
The fountain stood quiet, its dancing jets silenced. There was little noise at all save for the lapping of the water. He had the strange impulse to take off his shoes, and so he did, lining them up next to the fountain’s edge. For a moment he thought to run back to Saleh and wake him, to tell him that yes, there were many people who deserved apologies—Arbeely for one, and young Matthew, and Sam Hosseini for not finishing his necklaces. But time was passing, and it would be one indulgence too many. Besides, he’d taken care of the most important apology when he’d knocked on Anna’s door.
He looked up at the Angel again, at her face full of compassionate concern. There was a resemblance, he decided: the plain yet pleasing features, the set of her lips, the wave of her hair. It gave some comfort, at least.
He stepped over the rim’s edge into the low pool, shivering at the water’s touch, at the numb languor that crept up his legs. Then, without further thought or gesture, he bent and slipped himself beneath the surface, to lie in the shallows of the fountain, his body cradled in its bowl.
The Golem ran.
More than sixty city blocks lay between her and her destination, and already the sun was crowning over the East River. A few hours earlier, she could’ve raced in the dark, silent and anonymous. In daylight she would be noticed, remarked upon.
The Golem found she did not care.
She ran, rooftop to rooftop, through the old Germantown tenements, the East River hard on her right. Waking men squinted at her approach; she heard their cries of surprise as she ignored the narrow plank bridges and vaulted over the alleyways below. She dodged chimneys, clotheslines, and water towers, and counted the blocks. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
Time slowed as she pushed herself. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Union Square fell behind her, then Madison Square Park. Where would he be by now? Fifty-ninth Street? On the carriage path? Was it already too late? She ran faster, trying to keep focus: one misstep at this speed would spell ruin. The wind was a high thin cry in her ears. Children stared from upper windows, and would later tell their friends they’d seen a lady outrun the Elevated. Thirty-eight blocks. Thirty-nine. Forty.
At last she could see the park, a distant square of green flashing between the buildings. She clattered down a fire escape, startling sleepers on the landings. And then she was running across the avenues, a plain-dressed woman who dodged the morning traffic like a fish navigating a shoal. A trolley rushed around a corner, and at the last moment she darted past it, ignoring the incredulous fears of the riders who’d seen her coming at them like a cannonball.
She was across Fifty-ninth; she was inside the park. She raced up the carriage drive and then the broad, tree-lined path, feeling the growing things all around her, adding their energy to her speed. Ahead of her, a man in threadbare clothes staggered upright from one of the benches, pressing a careful hand to his head. He straightened, blinking a newly bruised eye, and gaped as she ran past.
Down the stairs, through the arcade, and across the terrace: and even before she was at the fountain she could see him there, curled like a sleeping child beneath the water.
“Ahmad!” She jumped the edge of the fountain and plunged in, hooked her arms about him and dragged him back over the side. Water sluiced from his clothing as she laid him on the brick. He was cold, and pale as smoke, and so horribly light in her arms, as though his substance had evaporated. Frantically she tried to dry him, but there was nothing to hand—only her own clothes, already sopping wet.
“Ahmad! You have to wake up!”
There was a man at her side, gripping her arm.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, shrugging him away.
“I’m trying to help you!” came the shouted reply, in Arabic.
Saleh’s head was pounding.
He winced, scolding himself for not realizing the Jinni would try something like this. Had he thought to simply talk him out of whatever plan he’d concocted? And why, for heaven’s sake, was he helping a strange woman save the creature, instead of simply turning around and going home?
Surprisingly, the woman seemed to understand Arabic. She’d moved aside and was now watching with obvious panic as Saleh cupped the Jinni’s chin in his hand, turning his head this way and that. He wondered who she was, how she’d known where to find them. Leave it, his mind whispered as he examined the too-pale face, felt the chest for a hint of warmth. Just let the troublesome creature die.
“Who are you?” asked the woman.
“Doctor Mahmoud Saleh,” he muttered and pried open one of the Jinni’s eyes. There: a spark. Bare and faltering, but undeniable. “He’s still alive,” he said. The woman cried out in relief. “Not just yet,” he told her. “He’s nearly gone.”
“He needs warmth,” the woman said. “A fire.” She began a frenzied search of the horizon, as though she might find a handy blaze nearby.
Warmth, fire. A memory came to Saleh, tinged with ghostly colors. He saw a frost-covered garden, a gigantic mansion of stone set with innumerable gables—and, resting above them, four chimneys that puffed gray-white smoke into the winter sky.
I’d appreciate it if you called on Sophia Winston and conveyed my apologies.
“I know a place,” he said. “But we’d have to carry him.”
At this the woman scooped the Jinni into her arms, so easily he might have been a sheaf of wheat—and Saleh began to suspect that he was dealing with not one troublesome creature, but two.
“Doctor Saleh,” she said. “How quickly can you run?”