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were happy to see all of us who had taken refuge in their home. Though they had not met any of us before, they kissed our cheeks and held us for a long time while thanking Allah for our safety. Mother and Hamameh bent to kiss Um Muhammad’s hand, but she
pulled away, refusing any gestures of gratitude. “It’s a duty,” she insisted.
    They invited us to stay in their home as long as we needed to, but Hamameh wanted to find her relatives in Amman. She asked Abu Muhammad if he knew them. He instantly recognized the names. Like Mother and Hamameh, who could recognize the names of many women, even if they were not actual friends, Abu Muhammad knew the names of many men. He sent word to let Hamameh’s relatives know where she and her children were.
    Within a day, a man in a taxi, stirring a cloud of dust as he pulled up at the door, asked for Hamameh. He was her uncle. The time for Hamameh and her children to leave the shelter had finally arrived.
    There was nothing to pack. Hamameh turned to Mother to say goodbye. Suddenly, I was frightened. Was Father going to come for us? Would we know how to get back to Ramallah? Who was going to carry me? I stared at Mother, who silently leaned against the wall. But Hamameh understood her silence.
    â€œMirriam, my home is your home,” she said to Mother. “Come with us until the men return.” She tugged at Mother’s shoulder.
    Mother agreed. Um and Abu Muhammad said they would tell my father and Hamameh’s husband where to find us. It was time for us to leave, too. “We’re going,” I cheered into Souma’s big ear, thinking that he had no one in the world but me. I was ready to go anywhere as long as he came with me.

    â€œWe have no space in the car for a donkey,” Mother snapped at me.
    â€œI won’t leave without him,” I shouted. “Yamma, let him come with us,” I begged. I gripped Souma with all my might as Mother tried to peel me away from him.
    Um Muhammad came between us. She quietly said that Souma belonged to her.
    â€œNo! He belongs to me,” I protested.
    â€œBut he would be so sad to lose his home,” she said.
    Now I could see what she meant. And so I let him go.

Hospital
    Hamameh’s new home was one room and a kitchen. She gave us a mattress and the kitchen space to sleep in at night. During the day, she and Mother worked in the house and talked. I silently awaited my father.
    Finally, when the moon was full like a cantaloupe, he and Hamameh’s husband appeared. Although the war had ended, they said we were not free to go back to the West Bank. My father also announced that he had found work transporting soda pop from a factory to local shops. We cheered. Soda pop, especially orange flavored, was a great treat.
    In the morning, my father let Basel and Muhammad and me ride in the pickup truck he drove. It was filled with soda bottles evenly arranged in crates like egg cartons. The glass bottles made a jingling sound. Abu Omar, owner of the
truck, had offered Father a tiny room to sleep in until he found a new place for all of us.
    My dad had also bargained for a daily bottle of pop for each of us as part of his pay. My heart overflowed with love for him. He never forgot about treats, though now I could no longer run to greet him, for my right foot had ballooned and become purple and shiny like an eggplant. Alarmed, my dad said he would take me to the nearest hospital. The next day, as soon as he finished his deliveries, we all went.
    The hospital was the largest building I had ever seen. It looked like a giant matchbox. In the distance, spruce trees stood straight like candles surrounding it. Vehicles lined the parking lot outside, and crossed iron bars secured the windows.
    On the inside, sharp smells—vinegar, alcohol, purple liquid iodine, red Mercurochrome solution, and soap—filled the air. Cotton and needles in steel trays rattled on carts that busy nurses pushed