Whispering prayers for strength, Ibrahim put the truck in gear and steered straight ahead toward the loading docks. The truck had no radio, but he was hearing music. It was an Arabic lullaby his mother sang for him when he was just a baby. He shook his head but the song would not mute. Ibrahim worried that at this crucial moment of his life he was slipping into insanity. He’d often wondered about the celebrated martyrs at the moment of their death. What were they thinking about at that last moment on earth? Did they hear the words of an Imam? Or did they hear the sweet voices of their mothers?
Ibrahim turned right toward an access road leading into the arena concession area. There was an open gate just ahead and he could see golf carts wheeling through it carrying supplies for the booths
