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delighted and insisted that we stay for lunch. This was a chance for Ali Baby and me to catch up.
    Ali queried wryly, “I hear that you gave $20 to the old man’s granddaughter?” I nodded yes, knowing that Ali would scold me for giving too much as a gift. I know how much he does not want me to spoil his sources. Ali held up the flat of his hand as if to silence my defense. He continued, “That gift saved your life. This man would not have accepted money from you, but he could see that you intended it for the granddaughter. You sidestepped his pride and you touched his heart. You impressed him as another man of honor who understood life as it should be lived, and he had prayed to meet you again someday to repay your gesture. You two are now bonded for life by this memory of honor.”
    I was stunned by the magnitude of this life lesson learned from what I thought of as a small gesture of consideration. We both stood gazing at the sun-baked horizon as our friend disappeared into the skyline. Ali went on to say that he had never seen Sharif take a liking to any stranger as it seems he had with me. He added what an honor it was that this small gift of limitless value was coming our way. As we walked back into the hotel, I reflected on my own good fortune for having such fine friends in my life. So there we sat, three of us waiting for Sharif to join us. We all had the same “split and run” plan in our heads. We needed to discuss how to move on. Zen had ditched our car the night I was shot, and he called his loyal friend Samir to bring us another car to use.
    And so we waited. The hotel lobby was soon filled with the aroma of roasting chicken wafting through the air. Since we had filled their pens with new stock, they were cooking all of the birds they had already prepared for that day. Ali leaned towards me at the table and said, “Listen, man, I want to share this with you in confidence.” He spoke quietly while peering into my eyes with intense earnestness, “The sacred stone, it is a true story. A friend of mine, his grandfather touched the stone as a child. He said that the stone healed his illness.”
    Curiosity carving its way into my mind, I inquired, “What does this mean to me?”
    Ali went on, “I had always planned to take you to see this man. When he was young, a secret sect had brought the stone to his village to help heal the sick. The stone was carried in a cask with holes for hands to reach through to touch the stone. When his turn came the boy reached inside the cask and touched the stone, and a small fragment fell into his hand as he withdrew it from the hole he had reached into. He was terrified and he knew that he might be punished for what he had done. As he withdrew his hand he held the fragment with his thumb and clenched his fist to his side. He walked home with the fist clenched, arm at his side, afraid to look at what he held.” Ali told me that this young man was Sharif’s grandfather. He looked deeply into my eyes and made an effort to gain my full attention. “No man knows how old Sharif is, but many have said that no man alive remembers him as a younger man. And there is no illness in his family.” Ali leaned farther until we were whispering to each other. “How do you feel?” he inquired.
    “Me?” I asked, looking puzzled by the suggestion of his inquiry., “What do you mean?”
    Ali asked again, “How do you feel, are you tired? Do your wounds hurt? Could you drive for several more hours?”
    I thought about this for a moment, my eyes trained off to the side, deep in thought, and then it struck me that my wounds did not hurt at all. The stiffness was gone along with the sting. I could raise the arm that was lifted by the hardest hit over my head and stretch it as if nothing had happened at all. “Huh, that’s weird;” I added, “I couldn’t lift my arm this morning to get into the truck.”
    “Exactly, man,” said Ali, “it is magic. Well, plans have changed, and as