"Mr. President—"
"Call me Assad. I'm not the President anymore. You are."
Jamal opened his mouth but said nothing.
Assad lowered his head, looking at the prosthetic limb. It's carbon fiber, light, painless to walk with. He slid a string of beads from his wrist, made of olive pits, polished bright. He placed it in Jamal's hand.
"These are Hassan's beads. When he died, he held them tightly and wouldn't let go. I pried them open. He died, I'm not dead yet. You're alive, don't die either. If we die, there will be no one left in Syria."
Jamal looked down at the string of beads. Olive pits, polished bright.
"Mr. Assad, do you hate me?"
"I don't hate you. Why hate you? You didn't kill my people. The ones who killed my people were Turks, Iranians, Americans, your own people—those who took foreign money to fight for foreigners. You didn't take any. You're still a teacher. A teacher is good. Teachers don't kill."
Jamal put the string of beads on his wrist.
