WHEN I WAS little, a year or so before I corralled Tom the sheep into my grandfather’s living room, I had my picture taken with King Hussein. It was his idea; depending on which side of my family you ask, he either wanted to get a photo with a grandchild from the Mufleh tribe (because Jiddo Riyad was a trusted advisor) or the Tabbaa tribe (because Taytay’s father was a prominent Syrian merchant and, legend has it, the recipient of the first Jordanian passport). In the photo, the king is smiling, his salt-and-pepper hair fading to fuzz on the top of his head. My parents cherished the photo so much they framed two copies, commemorating the king’s embrace in both the living room and their bedroom. There was likely never a day that went by when I didn’t see the photo of the king and me.