I stood outside that dressing room door for a long time with my hand flat on it.
40 men were singing on the other side of it. I could hear Ziyech in there. I could hear Mustapha, who cannot sing and has never let it stop him.
And 40 feet down the corridor, in a room with no windows and a stranger and a bottle of water, a boy of 20 was waiting for permission to go and be a national hero.
I took my hand off the door.
I did not tell him. Not that night. I stood there with the tape in my pocket and the truth in my mouth and I gave him his night, and I have never been able to decide whether that was kindness or cowardice, and I do not think it matters, because I would do it again.
He got 6 hours.
I took it off him at half 7 the next morning.
Sunday. The 8th of July.
The phone had been going since 4 in the morning and I had not answered it once.
