With your finished tortilla and heat gun in hand, you run down to the hotel kitchen. There is nobody around, so nobody will ask you any embarrassing questions. You grab a frying pan, toss your tortilla into it, and turn on the heat gun.

The browning mix sizzles and burns nicely.  Nearly half the tortilla is covered with browning mix, and it feels deeply satisfying to see it turn black.  The odor reminds you a bit of the smell that hangs in the air after a car bomb explosion. 

The flour tortilla buckles and warps as you heat it, creating unexpected texture and dimension in the work. You think of the guy's muscular chest and powerful arms.  At the same time, you realize the warping makes the tortilla more fragile,but also gives it depth and personality.  You wonder if the guy is the same way.

In a matter of minutes, the tortilla is finished. You hold it up, admiring your work. It is dazzling.

He is going to love this. 

As the sun sets over Baghdad, you rush out of the Green Zone, back to the ruined schoolhouse.  You hope he is still there. But if he isn't, you'll wait for him.

You'll wait.