Homeboy Hayder leaned toward the mirror and ran a comb through his jet-black hair. He hummed a melody as he shaved. The pitch was a little off, but he didn’t notice and wouldn’t mind much anyway if he did. His eyes were deerlike, deep and black and wet. He was good-looking, one of the most handsome guys in his neighborhood, and he knew it. He never had a problem landing dates. He dressed smartly, and though he was five foot nine, he sauntered through the Tunis quarter of Baghdad’s Suleikh neighborhood as though he were six two. He was on his way out for the night, and in a good mood. The Tunis quarter was once a lousy place to him. He was born there, but when he was four, his father was admitted to a program in international law in Wales, so the family moved to Cardiff. When his dad graduated, he took an important job with Lloyd’s of London, the British shipping insurance colossus, so they stayed in Britain. Hayder was twelve and happy in England, barely spoke any Arabic, and didn’t remember anything about Iraq, but two forces beyond his comprehension summoned the family back home.
