The Israeli bus was newer and had air conditioning, the strength of which had passengers reaching for blankets and sweaters.  Yet Jack was burning up.  Resting his head on the coldness of the window, he willed the onset of sleep. Rest had been elusive since boarding the bus in Tel Aviv, the mid-morning spring sunshine full of optimism for the newly inaugurated direct service to Cairo, unimaginable for decades.  Camp David had shifted the narrative. In her last letter, his mom had asked when he’d be getting over the travel bug.  But something was compelling him to remain in the Middle East. The air conditioning on the idling bus cut out with a low thud, the passengers issuing a collective groan.  They were at Kantara, waiting in line to board the Suez Canal ferry, the dry expanse of the Sinai behind them dispatched to the night.  Jack took a long…