Hussein did not remember falling down. He certainly did not remember passing out again. He knew only he’d reached a spot where the creek bed passed near a collection of thatched-roof huts, just as darkness fell. The huts seemed a likely spot to look for the gaalos, so he’d forced himself to keep moving, to search the homes. But climbing out of the creek bed had proved too much for his wounded and tired body. He awoke inside a hut, lying on his back on a rug or blanket. A single lamp cast looming shadows against the wall. An old man and an old woman bent over him. The woman wiped his face with a wet rag. “Thank you, grandmother,” Hussein said. He was not hallucinating; he knew very well this woman was not his real grandmother. In fact, he had never met either of his grandmothers; both had died before he was born. But he used the term as a courtesy. These people were helping him in his moment of weakness; perhaps that meant they were good Muslims.
