“Egypt would be materially improved if relocated to a better climate,” the first one remarked in a lovely accent.

“Yes,” his companion agreed amiably. “We seem to have situated all our colonies in the world’s worst geography.”

I smiled and was about to ask if they were British, but they each rattled open their newspapers, making it clear that no conversation was invited.

The train lurched and pulled away slowly, seemingly reluctant to leave the station. That reluctance lingered for no reason I could discover. Rarely topping thirty miles an hour, we creaked slowly through the tan Egyptian landscape, the surface of which was cracked like pound cake baked at too high a temperature. Outside, beyond the dusty window, the high-pitched train whistle barely drew the attention of brown-bodied peasants who stood as unmoving as scarecrows in the scorched fields we traveled through.

“Gracious! Look at that!” I cried, pointing at a building that seemed to float above its foundation, twenty degrees above the horizon in the shimmering air.

The gentlemen barely glanced out the window. “A mir-a-age,” one informed me, drawing the word out, as though speaking to some pitiable dunce.

“First visit?” the other asked, brows raised.

“Yes,” I admitted, and felt as though I’d committed some unpardonable gaffe. They shot small knowing smiles at each other and went back to their reading. Embarrassed that I was not equally blasé, I moved Rosie’s hot little body off my lap, fussing over her a bit to change the subject in my own mind, if not my companions’.

Mirages became routine. Like Rosie, I dozed as the time passed, molasses slow. Eventually we entered the Delta, where the temperature moderated and the landscape changed dramatically. Natives working in the startlingly green countryside looked more energetic and alive. The train picked up speed as well. I thought, At last—we’re getting somewhere! But a few minutes later, we slowed again and stopped.