Stay away from the windows!” He sat up sleepily, but then his eyes opened wide at the sound of gunfire. He rushed into the front room to see Baba standing to one side of a window, pulling the curtain back, peering out. Mama had barricaded herself behind a table turned on its side. The tablecloth lay puddled on the floor. A vase had shattered. Mama clutched a wailing Shatha. “Come here,” Mama ordered, moving to make a spot. “But—” Nouri gestured toward Baba. “Come right here,” she commanded, her silver bracelets clattering. At a volley of gunfire, Shatha screamed and Nouri joined Mama behind the table. But he insisted on looking around the edge of the table toward Baba. “There’s men out there I’ve never seen before,” Baba was saying. “They’re shooting at each other, throwing rocks, bottles.” “I wish you’d get down here with us, Mohammed,” pleaded Mama. But Baba stayed by the window. Baba wore his security guard gun in a holster at his waist. Every now and then he rested his hand on it.
