“Greetings,” he said.

“Double greetings, ustaz,” the boy whispered.

“Is this the home of ustaz Masharawi?”

The boy dropped his eyes to the cheap plastic thongs on his feet and nodded.

Cree stepped up to Omar Yussef’s shoulder. The boy leaned backward to look at the towering man. There was a small quiver in his jaw and his eyes were blank and fearful.

“Is Missus Masharawi at home?” Cree said.

“My mother?” the boy asked, in slow English.

“That’s the girl,” Cree said.

The boy didn’t understand. He looked at Omar Yussef, who spoke to him gently in Arabic. “These men are with the UN. They’re here to find out what has happened to your father. Can we talk to your mother?”

“Welcome,” the boy said, again in English.

They followed him inside. The dark hallway was a relief from the hot sun flashing off the white exterior walls. While his eyes adjusted, Omar Yussef blindly trailed the sound of the boy’s plastic thongs slapping against the tiles. The boy led them to the back of the ground floor and gestured to the several thick, floral couches crammed around the edge of the dim, cool room.

“Welcome,” he said again, as Wallender and Cree entered. Then he turned to Omar Yussef and spoke in Arabic: “Like the home of your family and your own home.”

Omar Yussef acknowledged the greeting. “Your family is with you.”

“Do you want tea or coffee, ustaz?”

Omar Yussef translated for Wallender and Cree.

Wallender smiled, asked for coffee and sat quietly. Cree spoke to the boy in a loud voice that was deaf to the unhappy silence of the house. “A coffee it is. Thanks, laddie.”

“I’ll have mine sa’ada,” said Omar Yussef, who always took his coffee like this, without sugar. “And ask your mother to come talk to us, please.”

The boy left the room. The three men sat unmoving on the sofas. There were low sounds from a corner of the house, as though skirts moved quickly in the hush. A cozy hint of burning gas and brewing coffee floated into the room.