“His English was exceptional. There was a glottal sound in his voice, but it was not harsh. I'd often asked him to help me with my sparse Arabic, trying to get my pronunciation of this or that word right. "Shukran." "Afwan." "Qumbula." Thank you. You're welcome. Bomb.”

“You should be dead," he said, his voice full of wonder. "How is it that you're still alive?" Jaw clenched, I worked at his grip on me, trying to get my fingers between him and my wrist. "I work hard at it.”

“Are you asking me if I fuck my food?” The words sound overly harsh in the darkness. “I suppose I am.”

“You ought to have known I'd do it!" My voice sounded harsh and savage like a stranger's in my ears. "Didn't I steal a crutch from a cripple?”

“With my last breath...may I thank my almighty creator for giving me his breath of life. May my life try to bring praise to him. Thanking him for creating me in his image (in spirit), his frendship and for using my life as a instrument of peace!✌”

“I gave my dad a thumbs-up.He stared at me. My mom turned to him in the car, asking him, What? What is it? He kept staring at me. My brown hair was an even bigger shock for him than I'd expected.I smiled and waved at him and mouthed, "Welcome home."He put his hand to his eyes. He knew I was finally cured.”