CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ahlan. Come in.” Hanna Vanyos ushered Sami into a narrow room brightened by the midday sun. Tattered curtains permitted rays to shine through a single window and illuminate a wooden cross on the western wall. Under the cross, a frame held a picture of a young man smiling at the camera.
Sami paid little attention to the tight space. His angst at finally meeting his father’s possible accomplice took over his body—his skin was damp, mouth dry, ears tuned to the thumps of Hanna’s plastic slippers.
Hanna squeezed Sami’s shoulder. “I can’t believe Yahya’s son is in my house. Here, in Palestine.” He had a booming voice fit for a sports announcer; his accent had American inflections. “Have a seat.”
Sami sat where Hanna pointed. His knees pushed against the edge of the cof
