"What is it, Warden?"

"A favor. Keep me in the loop for a job. I hate this fucking prison."

The attorney general called at ten.

"Scott-"

"Not now, Mac."

There was silence for a long moment.

"You okay, Scott?"

"No."

He hung up.

"Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was a legend in the NBA," the little black girl said.

"How do you spell that?" his brother asked.

"What?"

"Jabbar."

"Uh ... j-a-b-b-a-r. I think."

"Ah. Same as Abdul's name."

Abdul had just walked into the house. He sighed. His little brother was feeding falafel to the two blindfolded girls and the cat. He looked up at Abdul.

"Is he pleased?"

"Very. He says we will be heroes."

"Dead heroes."

"What is the girl telling you?"

"About someone with your name."

"Who?"

"Kareem Abdul-Jabbar," the little black girl said.

"And who is he?"

"He was an NBA legend."

"A basketball player?"

"Yes. He was named Lew Alcindor, but he changed his name when he became a Muslim."

"She is right," his little brother said. "I googled him. He wrote an op-ed in Time."

"You googled? Here?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"We must stay off the grid."

"I didn't google ISIS. The NSA won't flag a basketball player. Listen." His brother read off his laptop. " 'For me, religion-no matter which one-is ultimately about people wanting to live humble, moral lives that create a harmonious community and promote tolerance and friendship with those outside the religious community. Any religious rules should be in service of this goal. The Islam I learned and practice does just that ... Terrorism is actually an act against the very religion they claim to believe in. It's an acknowledgement that the religion and its teachings aren't enough to convince people to follow it. Any religion that requires coercion is not about the community, but about the leaders wanting power.' Abdul, I like this Kareem. I like his Islam."

Abdul laughed. "Brother, we do not follow the teachings of a basketball player. We follow al Baghdadi. He is a direct descendant of the Prophet."

"Does he play basketball?" the little black girl said.

"What? No, you stupid little girl. He is the caliph."

"What's a caliph?"

"Leader of the caliphate."

"Makes sense. What about Cassius Clay?"

"Is he also a basketball player?"

"No, you dope. He's Muhammad Ali."

"Who?"

"The boxer. He became a Muslim and changed his name, too."

"Athletes. American gods." He snorted with disdain. "We will bring the stadium down on Super Bowl Sunday. The holiest day of the year for Christians and Jews in America."

Pajamae felt someone come close and then smelled a foul body odor and hot breath on her face-and a strong hand grabbing her throat. He squeezed.

"Be careful who you call dope, little black girl. I would like nothing better than to send your head to your father in a box."

Pajamae struggled to breathe. She was sure she would die at that moment. But the good brother spoke.

"Uh, Abdul, let us call the judge."

Scott's cell phone rang. The room snapped to attention. Scott checked the caller ID. He nodded and put a finger to his lips. He answered and put the call on the speaker.

"Hello."

"Did you release the Imam?"

The same voice.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need time. If I suddenly change my mind and release him, the FBI will get suspicious. May I talk to my daughters?"

"You may hear that they are alive ... so far."

There was silence then Boo's voice. "Whereas, A. Scott?"

The room breathed out with relief. They were still alive.

"Boo, are you okay?"

"A. Scott, he tried to-"

The man's voice came back on: "Release the Imam."

The call was disconnected.

"When A. Scott finds out you tried to sex me, he's going to kill you, asshole."

Her face suddenly stung, and she fell to the floor. He had slapped her.

"If the judge comes for you, I will cut his head off."

The bad brother named Abdul laughed in that mean way he laughed. She heard his footsteps and a chair groan when he plopped down in it. She could hear the good brother breathing next to her.

"Are you okay?" He helped her to a sitting position. "Abdul, he has anger issues."

"No, shit."

Her face hurt, but she refused to cry. She would not be afraid. The three of them whispered in the corner like the snotty girls in the lunchroom at school.

"What's he mad about?" Boo said.

"America killed our father with a drone missile."

"In Dallas?"

"No. In Pakistan."

"My mother was like that."

"America killed your mother with a drone missile?"

"No. She was mad."

"Oh."

"Then she left."

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know where your mother is?"

"She ran off with a golf pro."

"Really? Is he any good?"

"He's dead. She killed him-or they said she killed him. A. Scott, he proved she didn't."

"And where is she now?"

Boo shrugged. "Somewhere with a man."

The good brother sighed. "I wish I could leave my brother."

"Why don't you? And take us with you?"

"Because he is my brother."

"But he wants to do something very bad."

"Yes."

"And you don't."

"No. He has lost his soul to hate." He breathed out. "But he is my older brother."

"We're sisters, but I wouldn't hurt people just because Pajamae wants me to."

"I don't want you to hurt anyone," Pajamae said.

"If you did."