The shop opened at seven. Muneer had been there since five, unpacking boxes, checking soil, arranging stems. The delivery truck had arrived at dawn with twenty new varieties he had never carried before. Orchids from Thailand. Lilies from Holland. Roses from Colombia. His father would have called it extravagant. His father would have smiled. The first customer arrived at seven-fifteen. An elderly woman looking for marigolds. She bought three pots and told him the shop looked brighter than it had in years. The second customer arrived at seven-thirty. A young man buying flowers for his girlfriend. He had no idea what she liked. Muneer helped him choose a mix of alstroemeria and white chrysanthemums. "Friendship and truth," he said. "She'll appreciate the thought." The young man paid and left. By nine, Muneer had served twelve customers. By noon, he had served thirty. The cash register was fuller than it had been in months. The phone rang constantly. Orders for weddings. Orders for

The first meeting was awkward.Layan sat across from Muneer at the dining table. Their mothers sat between them like chaperones, asking questions, filling silences, pushing food onto plates."So, Muneer," Layan's mother said. "Your mother tells me you own a flower shop.""Yes. It was my father's.""Beautiful work. We've bought from you before. Years ago."Muneer nodded. He didn't remember her. He didn't remember a lot of customers from years ago. But he smiled anyway.Layan said nothing. She picked at her rice. Her eyes moved around the room—the photographs on the wall, the old furniture, the vase of fresh lilies on the windowsill."You have a nice home," she said."Thank you.""Did you decorate it yourself?""My mother did most of it."His mother beamed. "He's modest. He helped."Layan smiled. It was a small smile, but it reached her eyes.---After dinner, the mothers moved to the living room. They sat on the couch, close together, whispering and glancing toward the kitchen.Muneer

The house was transformed.His mother had spent three days cleaning, cooking, arranging flowers from the shop. Every surface gleamed. Every room smelled of jasmine and cardamom. The dining table was stretched to its full length, covered in a white cloth that had belonged to his grandmother.Muneer stood in his bedroom, looking at himself in the mirror.The suit was new. Navy blue. His mother had picked it. She had stood outside the dressing room at the store, calling out opinions, rejecting jackets and shirts until the salesman brought out this one."You look like your father," she had said.He hoped that was true.He adjusted the collar. Straightened the sleeves. His hands were sweating.There was a knock at the door."They're here," his mother said.He walked out.---The living room was full of people.Not many. Close family only. His aunts and uncles. A few cousins. Layan's mother. Her siblings. An elderly aunt who used a cane and kissed both his cheeks.But Muneer didn't see any

Muneer woke to the sound of his phone buzzing.He reached for it, eyes still half closed. The screen glowed in the dim morning light. A message from Layan.Can we talk? Something has happened.He sat up. His heart began to race.He called her. She didn't answer. He called again. Voicemail.He got out of bed.---He drove to her house.The curtains were drawn. The lights were off. The car that had been there the night before was gone. He parked and walked to the front door. His hand hovered over the doorbell.He rang.The door opened. Layan stood there. Her eyes were red. Her face was pale. She had been crying."What happened?" Muneer asked.She stepped aside. He walked in.The house was a mess. Papers on the floor. Drawers open. A chair overturned. It looked like someone had searched the place or thrown things in anger.Layan led him to the living room. They sat on the couch. She didn't look at him."I need to tell you something," she said. "And I need you to let me finish before you

The masked man appeared in the doorway.Muneer turned. The man said nothing. He gestured with his hand. Follow.Muneer stood. He followed.They walked down a long corridor. White walls. White floor. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The man's footsteps were silent. Muneer's echoed.They stopped at a door. The man pressed his hand to a panel. The door slid open.A small room. A single bed with white sheets. A wooden chair. A small table. On the table, a folded pile of clothes. Gray sweatpants. A gray sweatshirt. White socks. White shoes.Against the wall, a metal vault. Small. The size of a shoebox."Change," the masked man said. "Put your belongings in the vault. Set your own code. No one will open it but you."Muneer stepped inside. The door closed behind him.---He stood in the small room. The walls were white. No windows. No decorations. Just the bed, the chair, the table, the vault.He changed out of his clothes. The gray sweatshirt was soft. The sweatpants were loose. The sho