East of Bethlehem lies an enclosed area known as Khirbet Syar el-Ghanam, “The ruins of the sheepfold.” It is one of three locales in the Arab village of Bayt Sahour linked to the memory of the Christmas shepherds. Issa and I step past its gate in pursuit of deeper desert. Fortunately for us, the gauntlet of trinketmen armed with postcards, stitched bags, keffiyehs, and flutes have yet to assemble. It is still early in the day for tourists, but not for the summer sun. Sweat stripes bleed through my shirt, outlining my packstraps. We thump by, mindful of the hour.