Picture in the Sand


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Prologue
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Epilogue
 Historical Note
 Acknowledgments
 Also by Peter Blauner
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Prologue
 Chapter 1
 Historical Note
 Acknowledgments
 Contents
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Pagebreaks of the print version
 
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 Begin Reading
 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
 Thank you for buying this
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 The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
 
 
 
 To David Denby, for forty years of loyal friendship;
 To Richard Pine, my friend and agent, who gave me sensible advice, watched me ignore it, and then guided me back from the wilderness;
 And to Kelley Ragland, who helped rescue this book and finally gave it a home.
 
 
 
 I don’t mind the Ten Commandments. I believe in the Ten Commandments. The first one—“I am the Lord, thy God”—is a great commandment. If it’s not said by the wrong people.
 BOB DYLAN
 
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 
 June 9, 2014
 To: [email protected]
 From: [email protected]
 Mother,
 I’m sorry for what I have to tell you.
 Maybe if I was more brave, I would say it to your face. But by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
 I realize this will be a shock. You know me only as the quiet, obedient son you and Dad raised me to be. You dressed me and fed me only too well. You sent me to the best schools. You mainly spoke English to me at home, so that I barely learned any Arabic. You helped me with my homework. You tolerated the rap and the heavy metal, the mess in my room, paid for my PS4 and the Sony camcorder, helped me take the tests and fill out the applications to the colleges you assumed I would attend. And I know you hoped I would become a big American success story and make you proud like Dad with his office at Chase or Grandpa with his gas station and his Escalade.
 I am sorry I’m going to disappoint you.
 But the curtain has been thrown back. The dream is over. What happened to Dad last summer woke me up. Yes, I know the FBI agents who arrested him and held him overnight at the jail have officially “apologized” for mistaking him for a terrorist with the same name. I know that you and Dad are ready to accept this and move on. But I can’t.
 I now see how easily everything we have can be taken away in an instant. All our savings, Dad’s “customer relations” job, the gas pumps Grandpa owns, the big house on Colonial Road. All our assets could have been frozen, our cash spent on defense lawyers. That American flag we fly on our front porch and the little U.S. Constitutions that Grandpa likes to give our guests? They’re jokes. We never really belonged here. I’ve known it for as long as