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exceptionally large and hot. It melted through the goggles and filled the interior with scalding steam. Afraid the metal was going to reach his face and maybe put out an eye, he panicked and fought to get the goggles off. Unfortunately, in his haste, he swept his right wrist in the path of the band saw.
    He said he didn't feel his hand get cut off. There was just a sharp tug, no pain, followed by a wave of dizziness. He probably fainted; he was never sure. Fellow workers picked him up and took him to the hospital, which was where he woke the next day.
    "Why weren't they able to sew your hand back on?" I asked.
    It sounded to me like it could not have been removed more cleanly. But he shook his head and said his hand had landed on a pile of recently cut cable that was still smoldering. The flesh was too badly burned. The doctors could do nothing with it.
    "Why don't you wear a prosthesis?" I asked.
    The question troubled him. He told me the hospital kept offering him lots of prostheses, but he couldn't find one that was comfortable. He would get sores and blisters where the synthetic material touched his skin. He was beginning to think he was better off without one.
    "Did you sue the company?" I asked.
    He didn't sue anybody; his boss had convinced him that the accident was his fault. They covered his medical expenses and paid his salary while he was at home healing. But he was never given money for his pain and suffering.
    "Why didn't you hire a lawyer?" I asked.
    The question angered him. This was Turkey, not America; people did not go around suing each other. He was lucky the company gave him another job. It happened; it was an accident, he said. It was Allah's will.
    I did not know what else to say, so I gave him a hug and told him he was very brave. That, at least, made him smile. Why was he brave? For being clumsy?
    "No," I said. "Because you're not a whiner."
    That was the end of our discussion about his hand.
    Now, flying over the water on our magic carpet, halfway to God knew where, I reflected on his story and realized it had all been a lie. There were too many convenient details. A burning shard had hit his goggles and melted into them. He worked with the band saw every day, but rather than taking a step back to get his bearings or turning it off, he swept his hand directly in its path. Then, his hand just happened to land on the one spot where it could be destroyed.
    Who cared if it was Turkey? He was working for an American firm. He should have been able to sue for big bucks.
    Plus, who would have given a teenager such a skilled job in the first place? The fact that Amesh was now a gofer made sense. Making deliveries was an ideal job for a young man on a moped. But cutting critical cables to within a fraction of an inch? Gimme a break—that was a job for someone with years of experience.
    Amesh continued to sleep. Scooting around, I saw the knot on his right sleeve was loose. His stump was visible, although it was only a shadow in the dark. Taking out my flashlight and cupping my palm over it to reduce the glare, I decided to take a closer look.
    "Forgive me, Amesh," I whispered.
    I had to be sure I was right. I lifted his sleeve several inches.
    Amesh had not lost his hand with a single clean cut. The skin on his lower right arm was heavily scarred. A number of scars reached past his elbow. The discolored flesh on his stump was particularly bumpy. The surgeon who had sewn it together had done a poor job. Or perhaps he had not had much to work with.
    The wound had been no accident.
    It was as if Amesh had been hacked with a sword.

CHAPTER SIX
    T HE FACT THAT AMESH had fallen asleep did not stop me from eventually passing out. Perhaps the carpet was casting spells, or else I simply stopped worrying about falling into the water. It had been a long day and I was totally exhausted.
    When I woke up and checked my watch, I discovered it had stopped. It read 10:35 p.m. That would have been an hour after we'd left