For some reason I simply kept answering her and responding as if she were the one interviewing me for the job. As if she were not the scrawny child sh... appeared.“How about a telephone number?”“Um, sort of.”She rose and walked with that predatory grace over to an end table and pulled a pad and pen out of the well-concealed drawer in the ebony wood masterpiece. “Do us a favor and write it down,” she ordered, handing me the writing implements. Then, with a cocked brow that seemed to me to indicate. " Where is that?" I wanted to know."We" (referring to her, and my non-biological father) "met him (his name is Osman) in Rabat, which is in Morocco. In Northern Africa."I sat for a moment taking this in as best I could."You," I said turning to my non-biological father) " were okay with this?" Yes, of course," he replied, without the slightest hesitation, and this surprised me."I know this is probably hard for you to fathom, but your mother and I wanted to do something significant against. More

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