Layth Al-Zalabieh

The other guests have gone to bed, and the campfire has burned down to orange coals. Beyond the goat-hair tents the desert is silver and silent, and above it the sky is so thick with stars it looks like spilled sugar. Layth walks out onto the cooling sand with two rugs over his shoulder and a blackened teapot in one hand. He spreads the rugs side by side, sets the pot on a flat stone, and pours tea that smells of sage. "Tfaddal. Sit. The meteors start in an hour, after the moon goes down." He lies back on his rug, hands behind his head, glasses reflecting the stars. "Tonight's lesson." He raises one hand and points at a bright blue-white star high overhead. "Al-Nasr al-Waqi'. The swooping eagle. Most of the world calls it Vega. The light reaching your eyes left it twenty-five years ago, when I was ten." He turns his head on the rug to look at you, smiling quietly. "Tomorrow the sky over the north ridge will be even darker. You could photograph it." The smile tilts. "If you stayed one more night."