A year later, things on the surface were going well. We had left Israel – Jamie’s sense of vulnerability had been too much to bear – and settled in Washington DC, a new place in which to start over. With the help of a therapist, Jamie had made significant steps towards mitigating much of the raw anxiety she’d felt after the trauma. And we had had our first child. But things deep within me were off. I had started getting panic attacks, suddenly unable to breathe. I was also suffering from insomnia and displaying absurd signs of hyper-vigilance. One moment, everything would be fine; the next, I’d be driving to Wal-Mart at midnight for mouse traps or a smoke detector – whatever item that moment called for in order to keep everyone I loved from dying. I knew where this came from. I’d done a few therapy sessions myself and the therapist had questioned my attitude towards the bomber; when newspapers had reported Odeh’s arrest, I’d looked away. Friends pointed to his picture but I was frightened to recognise in the face of the person who wanted us dead an image of myself, of humanity hopelessly flawed.