On the ground, a constipated and dry-mouthed Adem fought to keep sand out of his eyes. "What's next?"

Jibriil pointed. "He's holding a sign. By that truck. That's him."

Adem squinted and made out a tall man, maybe not even thirty, in a military uniform, rank unknown, holding a sign with Somali, some form of Arabic, and English on it. All three languages, the same word: Americans.

Jibriil pulled at Adem's shirt. "Come on."

"What about our bags?"

"What about your carry-on?"

Adem lifted the backpack he'd brought along. "This isn't my clothes."

Jibriil pointed towards the back of the plane. “You mean those?”

Adem looked-more teenagers with guns grabbing bags, opening and going through them before tossing the scattered remains onto an ever-widening pile. Like a party more than a job. His shouts were drowned out by the prop engine winding down.

"You forget why we're here. It's not a vacation."

Like he could forget that. Adem knew exactly why he was here. Because Jibriil had wanted it more than anything now that he studied at the feet of some freaky Imam in the Cities. He sold it to Adem like an adventure. Like Fifty Cent on the streets of L.A. but with bigger stakes and God on their side.

"I need underwear."

Jibriil smiled. "Go commando."

Adem gave up and walked behind Jibriil to the man with the sign. His truck was plenty old, ramshackle. The sand had blasted it shiny in spots, holes beginning to show.

The truckbed was full of boys. Maybe the oldest was fifteen. Faces wrapped with scarves, covering all but their eyes or framing their faces. Every one of them had guns, and a few had rocket launchers. Real fucking rocket launchers. They chattered so fast that Adem couldn't make out the accents at first-the language a blend of Arabic and Somali. He'd gotten used to English at the college, not like at home. But then it clicked and he understood they were dissing him. Laughing at him, pointing. He pretended not to notice.