Maybe that’s why I called Susan. I felt Susan’s weight slide from my torso, and then the sun was in my eyes. “Just listen to him.” The officer used his gun to motion us toward the parking lot. “Imshi.” “Move it,” I told Susan. After seconds that felt like hours, the hot metal of the door handle was in my hand. Susan appeared in the passenger seat, now visibly shaking. The back door opened; the officer lumbered into the seat behind me. “What do you want from us?” Susan screeched. Susan didn’t realize that as an American, she was hardly in danger. “One of you speaks Arabic,” came the voice from the back seat, growing more impatient. “Adish bidak?” Susan’s head jerked toward me, surprised as I was to hear myself speak. “Get out,” he said to Susan in forced English. I heard Susan inhale sharply, and then she did as she was told. I pictured the words as the officer read them: Luma Hassan Riyad Mufleh. Seconds later, Susan was in the seat next to me, her breathing fast and erratic. Every man I saw was that police officer, walking toward me with his gun, screaming my name. On the last afternoon of our trip, I scheduled our longest, deepest dive yet, and played dumb when we returned to our parents at the hotel to tell them they would have to push our flights back another day. The letter from Brown, the gun in my hand, Subhi, the gun at my head. But when push came to shove, during those long minutes in the car, Susan didn’t care what happened to me. Had my last name not been Mufleh, I would have been raped or killed, and Susan would have watched it happen. I had felt so inflated that out of everyone, Susan had chosen me. One Luma listened to her heart, to the voice that told me my place was in Jordan, picking fruit with my grand- mother, pulling pranks on younger cousins with Abla, play- ing soccer with my friends. That Luma had also been rash and reckless, ready to confront death head-on instead of waiting for it to sneak up behind her.