“Others will probably want to talk with you about this,” I told her, thinking of François Brissot, thinking, too, of possible tests someone might someday want to run on the bracelets.
Brissot scoffed at all of this and would not pursue it. He does have work enough for the rest of his life.
So I have written this account, appended a transcript of Robert Adams’s journal to it, made a recording of Hanna recounting her story, and keep the copy of Suleiyá’s bracelet with all of that. I will tell this story to whomever I can, if I think he or she able to do something with it—run the tests, scour the Aïr, interview Hanna and her descendants in depth. If I find no one, I will hand this account to my nephew, and ask him to do with it what I have done. Maybe someday, someone will ask one of us about it, or we will ask the right questions.
I often look at stars now. I stand at night in the hot, Saharan breezes to look at them. Forty degrees above the horizon in Africa, there are many, many stars.