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The two men stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

The priest wore a black skullcap and a traditional black ankle-length robe with red buttons known as a cassock or a jibbee, though Marcus was not sure which term applied. Around the man’s waist was a dark-red sash known as a fascia, and a large metal cross hung around his neck.

From behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses, the stunned priest tried to size the intruder up. Marcus had not seen himself in a mirror, but he could only imagine how disastrous he looked. Mind racing, he decided he should capitalize on his appearance. He began speaking in gibberish, making wide, sweeping gestures with his hands and stumbling toward the man as if he were drunk.

It seemed to work. The man took a whiff of him and winced immediately. Marcus knew he was not smelling alcohol. The odor the priest was picking up on was from the fact that Marcus had not had a shower in nearly two days. For good measure, Marcus began coughing up a lung and let saliva drip down his beard.

The priest—a slight, bookish man—backed away. Yet, choosing to press the offensive, Marcus continued toward him, grasping his stomach as if trying to make it clear just how hungry and thirsty he was. It was no act. And it worked. Once the priest realized that Marcus was not a threat, just another person desperate for the church’s help, his anxiety seemed to vanish, and his compassion kicked in. The man began going on and on about something. The words were in Arabic and thus of little help to Marcus, but the tone was soothing. Then the man took him by the arm and led him up a flight of stairs and down several hallways to an industrial-size kitchen.

Once the priest turned on the lights, Marcus could see how immaculately clean the place was. What a contrast, he thought, to the Hezbollah compound. The priest sat him down on a stool beside a large stainless steel island in the center of the kitchen. He opened the door to a massive refrigerator and pulled out a big bowl of chopped salad and some things to make a sandwich. Moments later, Marcus was wolfing it all down, enjoying every morsel. To the food, the priest added a large glass of ice-cold lemonade, which Marcus chugged down in about three seconds flat. He did the same with a second glass. And then the man put a bowl of soup in the microwave, warmed it up, and set it before Marcus with a spoon and several napkins. Staying in character, Marcus did not even glance at the napkins, much less touch or use them. But he slurped up the soup in short order. When he was done, he pushed the bowl away and let out a hearty burp.

The priest did not seem to know whether to be offended or amused but in the end let out a chuckle and started speaking to him once more in Arabic. It was not hard for Marcus to act like he had no idea what the man was saying. Rather than look confused, however, Marcus acted like he could not even hear the words. Instead, he just stared at the empty bowl, then looked absentmindedly around the room and fixated on a mixing bowl resting up on a shelf.

When the priest realized he was still not getting through, he again took Marcus by the arm and led him up several flights of stairs. As they headed down this hall, the priest motioned for Marcus to be very quiet. All the doors were closed, and Marcus guessed that this might be a dormitory for priests. When they reached the last door on the left, the priest opened it and led Marcus inside to a room with several empty bunk beds, each of which had a towel and washcloth folded and sitting on the pillow. Through an open side door, Marcus glimpsed the sight of many men sleeping on bunk beds in a spacious adjoining room. They must be homeless, he thought. Many looked as disheveled and lost as he did. But they were all clean. Clothed. Tucked in. And snoring up a storm.

The priest motioned for Marcus to remain quiet, then pointed to a bunk that he could use. Next he rummaged through the drawers of a wooden dresser until he found a fresh T-shirt that would fit Marcus and a pair of tan khaki trousers that—though well used and a bit tattered—were clean and likely to fit him as well. From another drawer, the priest fished out a pair of socks and an unopened package of men’s briefs. All these the priest set on the bunk. Then he opened an antique wooden wardrobe, picked out a dark-blue polo shirt that seemed about Marcus’s size and a well-worn pair of brown shoes—slip-ons, without any laces.

Once he had set these, too, on the bed, the priest led Marcus to an adjoining washroom, complete with a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall with no curtain. This could not be what all the men used; it was too clean and too small. But he was not about to start asking questions, so he feigned a look of near-complete lack of understanding, then dropped down on the floor, cross-legged, and leaned his head against the wall.

Marcus could feel the astonishment of the cleric, the man’s eyes boring into him. But he knew his only chance of this guy not picking up the phone and calling the police was maintaining the act of a man deeply troubled yet unlikely to do harm. So Marcus stayed in that position and did not look up.

Eventually he heard the man sigh, mutter something in Arabic, and then leave the room and close the door behind him. Through the bathroom door, Marcus could still see the sleeping men in the adjoining room. For good measure, in case any of them had woken up and were now looking at him, Marcus did not move for another ten minutes. Then he slowly toppled over onto his left side, curled up in a fetal position, and stared blankly into the bunkroom. This position he held for a good while longer, until he had scrutinized the face of every man that was visible through the doorway and became convinced that they were all truly asleep.