“What the hell was that?” Muhammad shrieked, lying on the forest floor next to the old man. He spasmed, furiously swiping palms across his body in an attempt to rid his mind of the flaming petrol.

The elder answered, “The first to die.”

“That was hell!”

The King struggled to his feet, and crunched beneath him. Between the old man’s tree and a narrow path, a thick log was angled across the forest floor, with a jutting branch like a broken humerus. Muhammad straightened with a wince, palms clamped to the knobby end of the weird extremity.

The soothing voice of the old man continued, “As you lived your mortal life, you shaped the universe. You were the rock sending the ripples. Now it is time for those ripples to return. If you don’t want to be alone, do this again… and again. The only way to find your real mother is to listen to everything.”

“What do you mean by everything?”

“Every person in that building, on that street… everyone you touched has a story to tell.”

Dusting himself free of debris, the Royal approached the pauper and asked, “Wait, are you saying I have to go through that again?”

“And again. And again and again.” The edges of the old man’s eyes softened.

“How many times before I see my mother?”

“It is not for me to say when you will see her next.” The thin hand pointed towards the odd log.

“Then what can you say?”

“When you have listened to everyone in that building, in that jet, on those streets, and beyond, then you’ll be on your way to where your mother awaits– Home.”

Reaching the fallen tree, the bony man cleared a place for the pair to rest next to the broken-arm-shaped branch. His liver-spotted hand knocked at the spot, but Muhammad would not sit.

“What do you mean ‘beyond?’ Beyond what?”

“Your actions have rippled far beyond those directly affected to everyone impacted by that day. Mothers, sons, friends– your pain spills forth through a network of cause-and-effect. You have lifetimes of experience ahead.” The knotty fingers pointed at the seat with another invitation.

“Not only do I have to relive the deaths of those I killed, but also the lives of anyone who might’ve known them?” The once-princely man walked away from the log. Tracing its bark with a fingernail, he encircled the tall tree with the huge canopy and red berries.

“Each time an action bounces from one life to another, new ripples form, like branches sprouting from a common trunk. But each ripple is unique, and destruction is not the only thing you left behind. Muhammad, your are more than this one day. You hated, but you also loved.

“Consider the day you saved Aziz from those bullies. You were outnumbered, yet courageous. And let’s not forget Hana’s fan. You stayed late into the night, showed gratitude for her stale biscuits, remember?”

“I remember those biscuits. Hahaha, not even the goats would touch them!” The King smiled. His shoes– no longer his favorite pair of high-top sneakers, but those stiff shiny ones he’d had on the plane– slid through leaves like two bulldozers making miniature dirt roads.

The wise man said, “Hana would’ve suffered that heat and soon died. So, consider that you are the reason her granddaughter, Aisha, got to see her two weeks later. Your mortal point of view is but the thin stem of a broad leaf. Until you face the many you hurt as well as the many you helped, you’ll remain here, ignorant of the fullness of your life. But, you’ve taken a step.”

“Step?” He sat on his spot, the hostility cleansed from his voice.

“The first of many. However, no one can make you take another.” Dry lips curled into a smile, and from the narrow belly came a bellow of laughter threading through the question.

“Remember the American you became a moment ago?”

“Right, the man in the Tower with the meeting in twenty minutes? The man with the darling little girl named ‘Payton,’ who’d just last week lost her favorite orange monkey– the one I gave her the Christmas my wife was sick… what am I saying? The Christmas his wife was sick. Sorry, I don’t know what just came over me.”

The wrinkled facial muscles melted as the old voice cooed, “That’s the man. You shared in his death which means we are no longer completely alone. Look there,” he pointed, “that’s him. Go and talk. You both have much to share.” A white man in a familiar pinstriped suit leaned against the pauper’s tree.

“Yeah… okay? Don’t you mean that’s another named ‘Sada.’ I know one when I see one. Hahaha, one? Everyone here’s an echo of my mind. He’s just like you, another of God’s tests.”

“Not a test, an opportunity. For the first time, a visitor has arrived.”

“A visitor? But… how?” With hands anchored to the log, Muhammad adjusted his seat away from the bum. His fingers touched his chin, flinching with the sudden texture of scraggly beard.

“Each life you account for opens a communication line, like a spiritual cellphone call.” The old man pointed at the mansion’s wall. “Just as you wash and ready yourself before prayer, your journey from the fortress across the fields prepares your visit to the forest.

“Muhammad, this is where God’s voice speaks. Each moment of accountability will be like the dream you’ve just had. Only these dreams are real. And as you became this man on that fateful day, you will become Hana feeling the cool breeze of the fan you fixed. Then, you will become Aisha the day of their visit. It is not all pain. Treasure awaits.”

“But the Imam–”

“Who cares about the Imam? The Imam’s not here!” The wretch bolted to his feet.

Nodding towards the tree, the holy warrior said, “But the Imam’s real, and you can’t prove he is!”

“I can.”

“How?”

A yellowed fingernail touched the young beard, and led red eyes to his golden-flecked iris, floating like the sun rising above a calm sea. The old man’s words began as a breeze.

“Ask the right question. You knew him as you know yourself, but the moment was brief– an unfinished puzzle. Ask him a question that does not have a simple answer– a story with a gap. His answer will be novel and logical, but most importantly, not by your logic. You’ll see how his answer fits the puzzle in a way you could not have imagined. One day, you’ll learn his name, and it will not be ‘Sada.’”

“I don’t know.” The royal foot drew a half moon in the dirt.

“Muhammad.”

“What?”

“Ask yourself, ‘why am I so bored?’”

“Because I know everything about everyone, and everyone knows everything about me. There’s nothing new here.” His eyes’ saccade flickered between his cheap dress shoes and the threadbare neckline of the bum’s robe.

“Exactly. Talk to him. The outside is now accessible. Don’t waste this opportunity. Experience something truly novel.” The beggar stepped over the great log, waved his weathered hand at the visitor, and, prancing like a young racehorse to the starting gate, latched onto the suit in a long embrace.

Muhammad called from behind, “Okay fine, if he’s really that guy, he can explain why he left early. What idiot retreats so close to victory?”

The men– two school girls shielded by a half-open locker door amid the packed hallways between classes– whispered behind the tree a moment. When the familiar scent of cedar and vanilla from the Tower’s office trailed the pair’s approach, the King ground his teeth.

“Left early?” asked the visitor, his voice sounding more nasal than in the dream.

“Yes, Dubai.” The jihadi’s nose flared.

“Dubai? When?”

“Early ninety-eight.”

“You mean the Cid-Tix account?”

“Yes.”

“So I took an early flight.” The specter stopped next to twisted branch, eyes turned down to meet the seated King’s stare.

“I was there two weeks, and only left eight hours early.”

The terrorist’s words rumbled, “But those were the critical hours when signatures secured so many futures.” Firing his outstretched finger at the suit, he continued, “That account was yours. All you had to do was, as you Americans say, ‘sign the dotted line.’ But instead, you gave it to her.”

Smack! The Ruler’s hands hit his knees, he shot to his feet, and eyeballed the pinstriped executive.

“A woman. You failed your family, your wife, and your children because you lusted for the attention of a female. You are weak because you wanted to impress her.

“Typical American– no self-control. You think you can have, what’s the phrase, ‘your cake and sell it too?’” Swiping at the air and marching towards the tall tree, “No! You can’t both eat the cake and sell it to someone else. I never understood how you Americans think you can consume everything in sight while selling the promise of everything to everyone!”

The foreigner roared with merriment.

Lips puckered, Muhammad landed an open palm on the shady giant, its creatures scampering in retreat. He folded his arms with his back turned, closed his eyes, and waited for the visitor to disappear.

“Sell it? Oh, Muhammad, my brother, that’s not what we say. It’s ‘have your cake and eat it too!’” The uncontrollable noise from the man in the spotless fancy fabric jammed needles into the royal heart.

Muhammad grumbled, “But, you Americans, all you worship is money. It’s your god, your cake, your Paradise.”

“Do you want to know why I left that conference early? Payton.”

“Your daughter, akeed.”

“Well, not exactly Payton, but her dog, Jupiter Juice.” From the bent yet sturdy branch, the visitor left the vagrant to join Muhammad under the canopy.

“Dog? I didn’t know you had a dog. You know, that’s something else I just don’t understand.”

“You don’t remember what a dog is?” The loose posture stiffened.

“Disgusting. Of course I remember what a dog is.” Muhammad’s fingers picked at the tree bark.

“You do? Then why don’t you have one?”

“Have one? La samah Allah, why would one purposely soil themselves? Dogs are unclean. They served a purpose on Earth, but have no place in Paradise.”

“Brother, I get your point. They are a bit messy.” Chuckling, the towering man wandered back to the log.

Muhammad pointed a finger, asking, “And that’s another thing, why do you Americans treat your dogs like people? You allow them into your homes, near your food… God forbid, in your beds where your children sleep!”

Sitting by the elder, the man from the Towers said, “Oh brother, I understand. Our cultures were very different. Community and honor drove your development, while intimacy and industry shaped mine. Why would I trade a promotion for the life of a simple dog? My love for Payton. For far too long, I wasn’t there for my little girl, but when it mattered most, I stepped up to prove to her what really mattered to me.

“Plus, I really love that old guy. His prognosis was grim and Payton was devastated. Only surgery gave him a fighting chance. But, you know what? I made it home in time, and Juice recovered. Our beloved golden retriever lived a few more happy years. It changed my relationship with Payton. Hahaha, I’ll never apologize for leaving Dubai early.”

“Right, sure” whined Muhammad’s stringy voice. Slowly pacing around the trunk, he pointed and said, “Yes, that makes sense. You returned to take the job in Acquisitions so you could hire the new girl for the whore. It wasn’t enough that she took our success. Sherry was for her. You knew Billie was unclean the moment you’d met her. And, when you failed to make a true woman of her, you, how do you Americans say, ‘flipped the light.’”

“The switch.”

“Whatever. You used Sherry’s sin to place her in your debt. So, when she became Billie’s lover, both fell under your hand. Devious, my man. I’m sure it took months to work out all those details.” He planted his feet, nostrils whistling as winds bellow across ocean waves. In response, the American stood straight and stiff; his voice, harsh.

“Sin? Hell no! Just because two people are the same gender doesn’t erase the value of their relationship. Muhammad, love is never a sin! Sherry was a perfect addition to my team. And I’ll tell ya, the idea I might’ve played any role in those two amazing people finding each other means everything.”

The hijacker stepped forward, crowing, “You failed as a man. Billie became your superior– the CEO of your company! You had to put that woman in her place. Men don’t take orders from women!”

“Maybe not where you’re from, but in New York, minorities are encouraged to fight for their rights. It’s taken far too long, but men are finally waking up to the fact that the contributions of women are genius.” The tall man’s hand landed on the narrow shoulder, but the terrorist pressed past. He spoke in cold words as he stood next the beggar.

“Only men are geniuses.”

“I believe the saying is, ‘the future is female.’” The American smiled.

“Ha! A woman’s place is in the home. The only future a woman has lies with the sons God allows her to raise.”

Looking up, the specter said, “Again, maybe where you’re from, but not where I’m from.”

“Because you are from the lake of confusion, the pit of darkness. The US of A is the source of jahilyya, the poison killing His righteous. To establish the Caliphate, the world must be cleansed of America and all her seductive ideas. The fact that your superior was a homosexual woman, and that you gladly bent your knee before her, is proof of this.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I hired Sherry weeks before Billie became CEO, and that was a few months before that meeting about the deal we were meeting about the day… well, the day that…” The visitor’s eyes dropped.

“That day that I…” Muhammad folded his arms, and turned to face his mansion wall.

Approaching the log, the well-dressed man filled in, “That day that happened to so many of us for so many reasons.”

Nauseous gas boiled into Muhammad’s esophagus. Stomping through the forest until he reached the soaring tree, he breathed. Above, sparkling irises peaked over dark branches, and everything grew silent.

With fingers dug into the bark, the King began slowly, “You mean, you came home from Dubai to save a lousy dog for your daughter? You didn’t give the Cid-Tix account to Billie to place her in debt, so you could one day hire Sherry to manipulate her into securing your promotion to VP of Marketing… the next step to the top where you should’ve been all along?”

“I’ve never wanted to be CEO.”

“Then, what was the plan?” The jihadi’s eyes widened. The creatures above perked their ears high from their hiding places.

“Plan?”

The hijacker’s fingers ran past his forehead and gripped his hair as he said, “You can’t tell me Americans don’t have a diabolical plan for everything. I saw what the CIA did to my village. There are no coincidences, right?”

Like the filling mast of a sailing ship rolling open, the suit glided from the old man to Muhammad, voice fading with each word spoken.

“Do you really believe that? Life is far too messy to plan every little detail.”

“Not true. It’s God’s will and the wisdom of the Prophet, peace be upon him, that guides my way. You are not so stupid. You had a plan.” The Royal left the foreigner under the tree, and returned to his commoner sitting on the log.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Deep in the forest, a bush rustled. The towering man twisted towards the movement. He smiled as he spoke.

“Why do any of us do anything? I love my daughter, and Billie’s an impressive executive who did incredible things for all of us. You’ll get to know her… become great friends!”

From behind the pauper, the King angled the old shoulders– a shield against the visitor. The implication of casual intimacies with any unmarried, unaccompanied woman– let alone an American lesbian– was a threat so great it promised to destroy Paradise. Yet somehow, it forced the pieces into place, making clear this man was not Muhammad’s dream.

The elder nodded towards the slate-gray suit. The American’s eyes sparkled. He approached, hand extended. Muhammad gripped hard. A vigorous handshake oscillated the two bodies.

The visitor waved goodbye, turned from the tattered pair, and disappeared into the forest, saying, “Until next time.”