To be a day short of one's fifteenth birthday is a characteristically happy time in a young man's life. Considerably less so when there is no chance whatsoever of reaching it.

He was sitting alone in the backseat of a rattletrap Citroën. Malika was in front, and next to her a man named Naseem was driving. He knew why she was in that seat. He would have been there too had their situations been reversed. His identity documents alleged him to be Youssef Aboud, and after six months of use the name almost seemed real. His true name was Jalil, but that, like so much else, had fallen to a distant memory. They'd insisted he use the new identity exclusively, beginning the day he had left home, all throughout his travels, and even after he was established in the safe house in Paris. They'd told him it was a manner of training. If he became Youssef Aboud, he would be less inclined to make a mistake under the duress of a roadblock or border crossing.

There had been a great many of those since last summer. His first journey had taken him from Gaza to Syria, and after a month in Raqqa, onward to Turkey and Greece. Then came a surprise detention on the island of Lesbos, and eventually he'd been shipped back to a Turkish refugee camp along the porous Syrian border. It reminded him of the child's game Chutes and Ladders. Three steps forward, two steps back. The second time they put him on a plane to Budapest, where he was interned for nearly a month before being hauled back to Turkey on a bus. It was the southern route that succeeded: Turkey to Macedonia, followed by a leaky boat to Italy, and finally France. It was strange, he thought, how much persistence had been necessary to arrive where he was today — at the most foreseeable of all ends.

"We are nearly there, Youssef," said Malika.

"My name isn't Youssef," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing," replied Jalil, his blank gaze pinned out the window. The day was cold and gray, which seemed predestined. Minutes ago they'd passed a great industrial complex, and Naseem had said something about it being the place where France did its research on nuclear weapons. He might have been trying to lighten the mood, or maybe distract Jalil. There was little chance of either. A second car was trailing behind them, although Jalil couldn't see it. Three men with AK47s who would go to work in the aftermath. A four-minute delay — long enough for the smoke to clear and the crowds to start gathering.

He shifted in his seat, the vest heavy on his shoulders. They'd made him wear a mock-up around the safe house in recent days, a duplicate item filled with sand. He'd tried to get used to walking with something near a normal motion. Today he wore a thick coat over the vest, the liner removed to make room. It all suited the day perfectly.

As they neared town a light snow began to fall, and for the first time since waking Jalil thought of something other than his fate. He'd not seen snow since he was very young, and he marveled at the flurries of white whisking past his window. He used a button to run down the window, and a few flakes whirled inside.

"What are you doing?" Malika snapped.

"Nothing," he replied. "I only wanted some air."

Silence fell for a time, until Naseem said, "You should pray one last time."

"I will," Jalil lied. He had been praying constantly for the last two days, or so it seemed. They told him it would be easier that way, help him follow the path of Allah and see the light of glory. They were wrong.

"There," said Naseem.

Jalil looked out the window, and he saw a place every bit as foreign as Paris. He had spent nearly a month there, feeling as though he'd arrived on a different planet from the one that held Syria. They had let him go outside only once in that time, two nights ago when they'd taken him to a dreary bar, and made him smoke from a hookah and drink bourbon from a place called Kentucky. He also had a vague memory of an incredibly curvaceous woman, a prostitute he was sure, who told him in Arabic what she would do for him. The others all laughed. Jalil had found her more intimidating than erotic, and when he sent her away she'd called him a homosexual. Then everyone had gone back to the flat and passed out, and in the morning they all cleansed themselves and prayed.

This place was called Grenoble, and it had been a half-day drive from Paris. When they told Jalil this would be his target, he'd researched it on Malika's phone while she slept. It was a mid-sized town, 150,000 people nestled in the foothills of the French Alps. Roughly the same number of inhabitants as Aleppo today — a city whose prewar population of two million had been on par with Paris itself. So much suffering. The others at the safe house argued constantly about who was to blame for Syria's misery: France, Assad, the United States, Iran. All they could agree on was that someone had to be held accountable.

What does any of that matter now?

Jalil noticed one hand trembling ever so slightly. He gripped the door handle as hard as he could. The car began to slow as they reached the center of town. The city seemed alive. He saw red tram cars gliding over spotless streets, glittering decorations strung across storefronts. There were people all around. No, not people, he corrected — infidels and apostates. He saw smiling women and children, circumspect old men. A group of boys his age were doing tricks on their skateboards. Which should I kill to most please Allah? This was the question Malika had told him to focus on once he got out of the car. Such a strange question.

He was again marveling at the snow when a voice drifted in, the words not quite registering. "What?" he said.

"The drop-off point is just ahead," Malika said. "Are you ready?"

He looked at her, thinking how different she looked now. He remembered playing tag with her, when she was a teen and he was just a boy. Malika had never let him catch her the way the other teenagers did. Today she was wearing Western clothing, wedged into pants and a blouse that were too small for her ample figure. Still, as he looked at her exposed hands and face, she reminded him of the pudgy little girl he'd once known. She was even wearing makeup today, although she'd assured him it was only to blend in. Naseem was wearing jeans and a hooded jacket like half the young men in France.

The Citroën pulled to a stop along the busy boulevard.

Malika turned in her seat, and Jalil met her gaze. She looked worried.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding distant and unfamiliar. "I am ready."

"May Allah be with you." She reached out a hand and he instinctively took it. The trembling was back — no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it stop. It occurred to him that this was the first time she'd touched him since the halfway point of today's journey, when they'd stopped on a desolate farm road. She had taken the vest from the trunk and helped him put it on. His hand still shaking, he looked at her with profound embarrassment as a tear streaked down one of his cheeks.

"It's all right," she said comfortingly. "You know how proud your mother will be."

Jalil only nodded. He pulled away, and with a last glance at Malika he got out of the car. He shut the door and began walking away, only to hear a rapping noise from behind. He looked back and saw her banging the window harshly with her knuckles.

Jalil looked at her dumbly, unsure what she was trying to...