By the time I’d established a camp in the covered breezeway of the Luxor obelisk - “Cleopatra’s Needle” it was called, at least according to a bronze placard on its wall - and bound her hands and feet, the sun had set and a slight rain had started to fall; something I fully welcomed after so much time in the desert.

As to whether the girl welcomed it also, who could say. For even though I set her near the opening (as well as the fire) and provided her my own bedroll to sit on, she only continued to glare - probably due to us eating in front of her; for I had decided, though you might think it cruel that I would starve her into speaking, if necessary. Which, of course, she finally did - speak, that is - although only after a considerable time, saying, hoarsely, yet clearly, assertively, “Is this some kind of torture? I mean, don’t you have to feed prisoners before killing them? Isn’t that what the Geneva Convention says?”

I looked at her through the flames, saying nothing, even as Kesabe snarled.

At length I carved a piece of meat from the spit and dropped it on a paper plate, which I carried around to her - but didn’t hand over. Instead, I knelt and sliced off a single bite-sized morsel - then held it close to her nose.

“Trade,” I said, matter-of-factly. “One bite per something about you. It can be your name. Where you’re from. How you’ve survived ... Just talk.”