Friday, September 16, 1:30 a.m. EDT

Khadi wasn’t sure how long ago night had fallen. All she knew was that she was cold, hungry, and sore. She lifted her head slightly and tried to look around. Although the lights in the cathedral were still on, without the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, the interior of the structure had taken on a decidedly starker, grayer feel.

After the beating, she had been half led, half carried to the non-Politico group. The chairs had all been moved away previously, and everyone was sitting on the floor. As soon as she was led up, a number of the men slid back to make room for her.

A man who introduced himself as Alan Paine slipped off his jacket and made a pillow for her. He disappeared, but soon he was back with another jacket from someone else and draped it over her as a blanket.

And there she had lain for the past who-knows-how-long, slipping in and out of awareness. At one point, when she opened her eyes she found two pieces of white bread and a Dixie cup full of water.

Alan, seeing that she was awake, had encouraged her to eat the bread, but her mouth was too swollen to even think of trying to put something solid into it. Finally, he had settled for giving her a few sips of water before she had drifted off.

Now it was sometime in the middle of the night. All around her were hushed sounds—small groups of hostages talking softly, others lightly snoring, a sob, a comforting word. Every now and then, one of the terrorists would take issue with one of the hostages. If the hostage were lucky, they would just be berated. If not . . . it was usually the fist they used, but sometimes they went straight for the rifle butt.

And these are your people, Allah. Which means these are my people. I don’t understand—I truly don’t. How can we both be reading the same book yet come to such divergent conclusions? And then I look at someone like Alan . . . Even now she could see him, jacketless, sitting huddled together with two other men, tucked in a tight ball trying to keep warm; low, soft, unintelligible words wafted through the night air. They call him the infidel. They say he is the one who is against you. Yet who was the compassionate one?

She reached her hand from under the blanket and pinched off a small bit of the bread. But from the feel of it, it had gone stale hours ago, and she left the morsel on the tile without attempting it.

If tomorrow is the day I am to die, I want to make sure my eternal destiny is secure. But even now after a lifetime of following your laws and trying to do the right thing, I have no peace. Why is that? Can’t you just grant me that much?

Riley has peace. I knew that from the moment I saw him after his torture in Italy. It’s like he has the big picture all figured out, while I can’t even figure out where my little piece of the puzzle fits. Why does his God give him that? While you give me . . . what? Tradition? Family harmony? A “maybe’s” chance at heaven?

She rolled over, trying to shift the aches and pains to another side. A hand gently touched her shoulder, and Alan said, “Are you okay, Khadi? Can I get you anything?”

“An M4 carbine and a box of loaded magazines?”

Alan laughed. “Now that sounds like the Khadi Faroughi I’ve read about. You holler if you need anything.”

“Wait,” she said, placing her hand on his. Without looking back at him, she asked, “Alan, do you believe in God?”

“You think I could be smiling right now if I didn’t?”

“What would you think if . . . ? I mean, how would I . . . ?” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Never mind. Thanks, Alan.”

Alan gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Anytime.”

His hand left her shoulder, and she heard him slide back across the tile to his little group. The low talking began again, and she found it strangely comforting.

Dear God—whichever one of you is real and is actually listening—help me to get you figured out. I want to follow you, but I just don’t know who you are. Don’t let me make the wrong choice. I don’t think I’m going to have much time to correct it.

She let her eyes close for a moment, fully intending to continue her nocturnal spiritual wrestling. Instead, the next time she opened them color had returned to the cathedral, and by the sound of things, the terrorists were getting restless.