BABA PUT THE PAINT CAN DOWN ON THE SIDEWALK. “I had the strangest dreams when I was in a coma. It was probably just the drugs, but sometimes I wonder.”

“Oh?” I dipped in my brush and started applying the second coat of Overtly Olive to the window frame. Mama and Daoud were inside, arranging the flowers on each table, careful to avoid Sargon, who was having a nap. We’d been at it all day and were finishing off just as the streetlights were coming on, bathing our deli in soft gold.

Baba worked alongside me. “You and Mohammed, sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the sea. The waves were so high, Sik! And there was lightning and the blackest storm clouds. I was terrified for you, but you were both laughing. As if defying the chaos, the very elements that were trying to destroy you.”

“Funny dream.” I tried to avoid splashing the window frame—that was especially tricky.

“Mama had the exact same dream,” said Baba. “Strange, eh?”

“I don’t think it’s strange for parents to dream about their kids.”

Baba stopped painting and looked over at me with a thoughtful frown. He’d been out of the hospital for a month but still hadn’t yet filled out to his normal size. His eyes sat deeper than they used to. “Then Mohammed came to me. He knew I was sick, and he told me to hang on, hang on and wait, because you were coming to save us.”

I tried to keep my expression blank. “How was he?”

“Happy.” Baba shook his head. “And carrying a string bag.”

“Mama have that same dream, too?”

Baba nodded. “You were the reason we fought on, Sik. You know that, right?”

“I…” I blushed. It seemed so long ago already. With Nergal’s destruction, his hold on the city was broken. His curse was lifted, and healing began immediately. I’d made my way to the hospital, past thousands of poxies, bewildered as their diseases receded and their health was restored. There were barricades around Manhattan General, but in all the confusion, I got past them easily. I raced up the stairs to find Mama and Baba waking from their long comas. I’d thought my heart would burst with relief.

We’d been so close to tragedy, and yet here we were, reclaiming our lives. All because of a flower. Mo’s Promise.

Baba squeezed my shoulders. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Likewise, Baba.”

He laughed, and it was the first time I realized how much it sounded like Mo’s. Then Baba sighed as he spotted a guy setting up across the street. “Ya Allah. Not another one.”

“Get your genuine Manhattan rainwater here! Guaranteed to cure anything! Just a hundred bucks and you’ll live forever!”

I watched the guy line up a dozen plastic bottles on a card table outside Mr. Georgiou’s wrecked pizzeria. He held up a bottle as a woman passed by. “Ma’am! Want to get rid of those wrinkles? Better than Botox, and gluten-free!”

Daoud came out and joined us. “Another hawker?”

“Third this morning,” Baba replied. He took off his painting gloves and tossed them onto a table. “Your shift now, Daoud. I’ve got to make up the sauces for tomorrow’s grand reopening.”

“Hey, Baldilocks! Just fifty bucks and you can grow an Afro overnight!”

I sighed as I continued painting, all the while listening to the guy’s increasingly extravagant—and desperate—sales pitches.

“Collected on the actual night of the Big Rain! These are my last bottles! Once they’re gone, they’re gone! One gulp will mend a broken heart! Two will deliver you the man of your dreams! You, sir! Want to lose that gut of yours? Here’s a six-pack in a bottle!”

Mama waved at me through the glass. She had the counters polished like mirrors, and the new wall tiles gleamed. We’d gotten them from a Turkish wholesaler: blue branches spreading across a shiny white background, a design called the tree of life.

“You serving yet?” The street vendor strolled over and perched on a fire hydrant. “I could use a Coke.”

I gestured at the bottles he’d left behind on his table. “Your magic rainwater not good enough?”

“That, kid, is for purely medicinal purposes.” He gazed around and sighed. “Thought I might have better luck selling on this corner. Y’know, because of all the tourists. This is where Sikander Aziz used to live, isn’t it?”

“What?” I asked, bewildered. “And what?”

“The Hero of Manhattan,” said the guy. “Shame he’s dead. An endorsement from him would have made me rich.”

“He’s not dead. I mean, I’m not dead.” I pointed the paint roller at myself, splashing speckles of green on my T-shirt. “I’m Sikander Aziz.”

The guy laughed. “And I thought I was a con artist. Nice try, kid. Nice try.” Then he pointed at Daoud’s face. “Hey, how about I give you one of my bottles in exchange for the Coke? The water’ll fix that up no problem.”

Daoud touched the scar on his cheek. “How ’bout you just give me two bucks?”

Reluctantly, the guy handed over the money, and Daoud passed him the soda. I watched the hawker head back across the street.

“So, I’m the Hero of Manhattan?”

“Couple of weeks ago you were.” Daoud chuckled. “Fame’s a fickle thing. It’s gone before you know it.”

“It was gone before I even knew it arrived!” I complained. “I did save the city.”

“There’s been a Kardashian baby since then. The world’s moved on, Sik.”

Maybe it was for the best. At least people wouldn’t be turning up to test my immortality. Some guy, convinced the Big Rain had made him invincible, had dived off the Brooklyn Bridge to prove it. He’d ended up in critical condition, with forty-three bones broken.

Me? Mo’s Promise had affected me after all. When it came to Nergal, the desert hybrid had neutralized the effects of the original flower I’d brought back from the Sea of Tiamat, as Ishtar had suspected would happen. But I’d had a double dose of the desert version—first when I’d planted it, and then again in the downpour. As a result, my vitality had only increased. I didn’t need to sleep anymore. I never got tired, and any nick or scratch sealed up within seconds. But I still couldn’t handle more than a spoonful of the Baghdad.

I hadn’t really wrapped my mind around all that. I mean, I could barely plan for next week, and here I was looking at eternal life. I suppose I’d just have to take it one day at a time, like everyone else.

As for how New York City was faring, if the Big Rain by itself wasn’t enough to keep the conspiracy nuts from working overtime, we now had headlines on the front page of the New York Post like “The Gods Walk Among Us” and “The Miracle of Manhattan!”

Fresh theories about what had happened to the city popped up every day. Aliens were trending this week. The battle between Ishtar and Nergal on Venus Street had over ten million views on YouTube, though plenty of people were convinced it was just an online marketing campaign for the next phase of superhero movies. And there was the mystery of the seven-tiered ziggurat that had appeared overnight in the middle of Central Park. I’d tried visiting it, but it had been sealed off by the park authorities. When I’d asked about the gardener, no one had seen him.

“You been to the masjid lately?” asked Daoud as he worked his way carefully around the edge of a window. “The crowd has spread into the parking lot. Same with the local church. I hear it’s standing room only these days.”

“Everyone’s waiting on the next miracle,” I said. “How about we—”

Daoud’s phone rang. He paused his rolling and winced apologetically at me. “That could be a callback, Sik.…”

“Go ahead, take it.”

He smiled gratefully and slid it out of his back pocket. “Hey, Claire! Sun still shining in Hollywood? What have you…? Calm down! I can’t understand what…The lead? For real? Let me get a notepad.” He gave me a thumbs-up and disappeared upstairs, the painting completely forgotten. Typical Daoud.

But he wasn’t the same. Like everyone else, he’d recovered from Nergal’s disease. His skin glowed as brightly as ever, his hair had grown back, and his muscles rippled under his tight T-shirt. But he now had a couple of new features: a bridge of pearly-white front teeth, and also a dashing scar on his face, thanks to Idiptu. For some reason, the mark hadn’t disappeared, but it had launched Daoud’s career.

Offers were coming in day and night. When a casting agent went to sleep in Tokyo, a modeling scout was waking up in London. Vogue wanted Daoud in Libya next week for their “Urban Conflict” campaign.

“Hello, Sik.”

Belet crossed the street.

“Salaam. Long time no see.” I put down my roller and wiped my hands on a rag.

“Looking good.” She blushed a little. “I mean the place.”

“Yeah. We got some builders in, the sort of guys who usually do mansions in the Hamptons. They installed a brand-new, top-of-the-line kitchen. Someone paid them in advance,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know who that was, would you?”

“Someone with more money than sense.” She held out a rustic-looking wooden box. “Here. I brought you a deli-warming present from Gilgamesh.”

I took it. The box was long but not heavy, and there was a whiff of perfume coming from it. “He couldn’t bring it himself?”

She shook her head. “He wants his privacy, Sik. You can’t blame him for that.”

“I guess not,” I said. “And how have you been feeling these days?” She’d had a dose of Mo’s Promise after all.

“See for yourself.” She sighed and pulled up her sleeve, revealing a long scar from wrist to elbow.

“Oh. I was getting used to the idea you might be…you know…”

“You were changed by the flower itself—I wasn’t. Daoud’s perfume contained impurities, so the effects were never going to be the same. Just think about it,” she said as she rolled her sleeve back down. “If it had been as powerful, we’d now be living in a city with eight million immortals.”

Ugh. That didn’t sound appealing at all. But Belet living forever was a different matter. “You disappointed?”

“Just open the box, Sik.”

I obeyed and found several tall green stalks ending in white velvety petals, narrow and pointed like swords, and flecked with gold. Their scent reminded me of my favorite dreams. “Shukran.”

Belet smiled. “Gilgamesh calls it Ishtar’s Heart.”

Something lay among the stems. Something gold. “He gave me his royal seal?” I asked, picking up the ring. The sunlight glinted off the engraved images of the king and his lion.

Belet nodded. “You never know when you might need it.”

“No, I guess not.” I gestured to the doorway. “You want to come inside while I get a vase? Say hi to Sargon?”

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

“Settled in with Daoud. Got a cushion all to himself by the window. Come on and tickle his chin.”

Belet shook her head. “I can’t stay, Sik.”

“Why not?”

“I’m off to rescue my mother from Kurnugi.”

Of course she was. “You have any idea how you’re going to get in? And then out again?”

“Mother has friends around the globe. One of them will know the routes into the netherworld.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Let me go upstairs and get my passport. I have one somewhere.…”

“And leave Manhattan?” she said, gasping mockingly. “How will you manage?”

“But I promised Ishtar.…I should come with—”

“No,” Belet said firmly. “Your place is here for now. With your family.”

I glanced toward the kitchen, where Mama and Baba were busy cooking. So many times I had wanted to leave, to go on exciting trips with Mo. Now I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

But as strange as it felt to admit, I would miss Belet. “You swear you’ll come back?” I asked.

“Mother would never want to skip New York Fashion Week, would she?”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “There’s just one more favor I need before you go.”

She arched her eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You’ve got to try my new sauce. We’re calling it the Manhattan. It’s full of surprises.”

She grinned even as she shook her head. “I’m going to regret this, I know it.”

I grinned back. “Hey, where’s your sense of adventure?”

The deli isn’t big. You’d hardly notice it if you were in a rush, and everyone in Manhattan is always in a rush. It isn’t going to win any awards, but it has a lot going for it.

The windows let in the morning sun, so you can spend a while sitting and watching the world. The tables are big enough for you and your friends, gathered around to share a plate of meze. Mama believes in big portions, so you won’t go away hungry, and you’ll leave with change from a ten. There is a steady buzz. People chat, and they crowd around the counter, but they know how to wait their turn. Patience is essential if you want good food. The flavors are fresh, and they are spicy. The pitas are warm, cooked on the grill, right at the front. The coffee is strong and the sweets sticky.

You’ll want to come back, and that’s the best praise any deli can receive.

Yeah, it may never appear in the Michelin Guide. But if you ask for it by name, anyone in the neighborhood will point you in the right direction.

Mo’s.

Home.