Three days afterwards, the miracle, Sheikh Ibrahim emerged from his tent. He walked slowly, resting on the shoulder of his grandson, his countenance still wan but his eyes bright. Tidings of his arrival went about, and a crowd of people gathered, drawn by a want to see with their own eyes the living evidence, to cure the impossible and bring it into accord with the man they had known.
He said nothing at first. He strode into the camp, his presence a wordless rebuke of the frantic energy which had consumed the settlement. He stopped outside the clinic. Dawud, sorting half-heartedly through the drugs, looked up and felt a cold knot coalesce in his stomach. This was it. The verdict.
Sheikh released his grandson's arm and stood up, swaying but not assisted. He lifted his arms, and the chatte
