Sabina leans over me, staring out the window. “I have never seen the Dead Sea,” she says, her hand resting on my leg. The South Hebron Hills look like an unfinished sketch in a series of oil paintings, dusty outlines still waiting for the wash of a paintbrush.
She leans back into her seat, takes my hand and points to things, ticking off their names in Arabic and then in English. She stops only when we roll through the checkpoint, squeezing my fingers till I shift uncomfortably and grimace.