“La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammadan Rasul Allah,” he recited, copying my terrible attempt at Arabic exactly, down to the flaws.

“Well? Do you feel anything?” I asked, looking up from my books, remembering precisely how it had felt to me.

“Nothin’.” He laughed. “I guess Allah doesn’t like the Ásatrú. I wonder what Rob would say about this.”

He shook out his blond hair like a friendly retriever, took his hat back, picked up his violin, and slipped out the back door to dodge campus security on his way to his girl.

For reasons that remained, as ever, entirely his own.

“Later, Sufitru,” Shams waved.

“Catch you on the flipside, Helsman,” I replied.