Free Heroic Measures by Jill Ciment

I start to put two and two together; he must have a bomb under the coat.”
    The basset-eyed newscaster looks directly at Ruth and anyone else watching. “What Pamir does next will shock you. We’re talking with Debbie Twitchell, hostage in her own home.”
    “He says, What kind of pills do you keep in this house? I say, What kind do you want?”
    “You say that?”
    “He has a bomb. I don’t want to die. I didn’t know terrorists take drugs. He forces me into the bathroom and makes me get in the tub. He’s looking everywhere for my pills.”
    “Does he find anything he wants?”
    “All I have are antidepressants. He’s getting really jittery. He keeps asking if I have anything stronger. I keep thinking he’s going to press the button on his bomb.”
    “Did you see the bomb?”
    “No, like I say, he keeps his coat on. He says he’s going to kill me if I’m lying. I think maybe if I do everything he asks, he’ll let me live. So I say I have some crystal meth.”
    Ruth isn’t sure she heard Debbie right. The basset-eyed newscaster isn’t sure he did either. “You offered Pamir methamphetamine? A man you believe has a bomb under his coat?”
    “Soon as I say it, I think, what have you done, Debbie? You’re going to give a terrorist the thing that made you crash your car and steal from your mama. I think you’ve just killed yourself. But I try to stay cool. I say, Have you ever done ice? He says he hasn’t. He wants me to show him how to do it. I make him two lines. I say, Here you go. He says, Aren’t you going to do it with me? I didn’t want to, I’ve been clean for three months. I only keep a little bit in the house as a test from God. But I don’t want to die either. So I do a quarter of a line.”
    “And he does the rest?”
    “Yes. I ask him if he minds if I pray. I don’t know if God will even listen to my prayers because I’m high. He says no, so I ask him if he wants to pray with me.”
    “Did Pamir pray?”
    “I think so. He mumbles something in Muslim, then jumps up and runs out the door. God heard me even though I was high.”
    Alex and Mr. Rahim watch the interview on a small set shelved in a corner of Sahara’s. Alex sits on a counter stool, while Rahim stands over a vat of boiling oil, waiting for Ruth and Alex’s falafels to bob to the surface. Without takinghis eyes off the set, Mr. Rahim opens a fresh package of pita and tosses two onto the grill. He blindly reaches for a knife, and dices lettuce, tomato, and onions by feel alone. The falafels rise and gyrate in the bubbling heat. With tongs, he plucks out the sizzling balls and drops them into the hot bread pockets. He slathers hot sauce on Ruth’s, tahini on Alex’s, then wraps them in old-fashioned waxed paper.
    “Who would give an intruder methamphetamine?” Alex asks.
    “The stupid girl thinks Muslim is a language,” Mr. Rahim says.
    Tonight’s polling question fills the screen:
Do you think terrorists take drugs?
    Alex pays, while Mr. Rahim settles the sandwiches in a paper bag and adds napkins and pepper, but remembers not to add salt. Alex can’t have salt these days; he and Mr. Rahim often compare their high blood pressure medicines.
    “Tell me, Alex,” Mr. Rahim says, “do you think terrorists take drugs?”
    Alex isn’t sure if he’s joking or not.
    Mr. Rahim smiles. “I know if I was going to blow myself up, I’d definitely take something.” He slides the bag over to Alex. “My prayers are with your little dog.”
    At the bottom of their staircase, Alex pauses to look up. It’s like climbing to the top of a lighthouse. He only takes two steps at a time when Ruth’s around, though if asked, he’d deny it. But today, even if she were cheering him on, he couldn’t sprint up. Between last night and this morning,he can barely make it to the third landing without using the handrail. The oxygen seems to be thinning as he ascends. He stops to let his heart slow down when he sees Ruth’s face hanging