“You must discipline him, Masra—or I will. No one with Muslim blood in his body should wear such symbols of American imperialism. Would you have him forget his heritage?”
She certainly would. She would have him forget everything that had happened in the seven pitiful years since the day he was born. And she would have Ibrahim—and all the others like him—out of their lives. She said nothing. It was the reaction Ibrahim expected. He swept past her and strode into the house. When she entered in his wake, Ibrahim seated himself on the only available chair and crossed his arms. He would wait there, saying nothing until she brought him the sweet tea he favored.
Masra bent to place a steaming cup on the ammunition crate that served as her table and waited for what she knew was coming. Ibrahim p
