A/N: For those concerned, rest assured this isn't the end of my fic writing side-career, but until next time…ma'a salama, my friends.

Epilogue: Return

Five months later

Through the buzzing static on the screen emerged a familiar scene: the endless dirt paths, the banks of white, beige, and blue tents, the glare bouncing off the pallid sand. It was 4 o'clock in Domiz Refugee Camp.

Standing on a chair at a dining room table 6,000 miles away, Sana peered into the fishbowl of her once temporary home with quiet wonder. And from the seat beside her, Ziva marveled at her wonder. It was like this every time. Gently, the child leaned forward on her elbows for a closer look.

That was when a face angled into the frame, a face as unaccustomed to the desert rays as it had been on the day Ziva first arrived at camp one year earlier. That he was still there was a testament to more than his skin's endurance of the sun.

"Gray!" Sana came alive, stabbing a triumphant finger at the laptop.

"Salam, mates!" The lead aid organizer beamed from beneath the brim of a ball cap. "Long time, no see."

Ziva chuckled at the irony. "As soon as the supplies were collected, we did not see a reason to delay sending the load."

"Yeah, the shipment arrived this morning. Typical, the kids loved it, but don't just take it from me. Have a look—"

The image from the other side of the world tilted; for a few seconds, there was only Gray's footsteps going from sand to cement, outside to in; then the view came right on the interior of the children's building, or what was now rightfully the camp's school once again. Gaggles of cheering children rushed around him, waving their new pencil cases and notebooks and crayons at the camera.

Sana waved back with both hands, her native tongue moving fast with greetings.

It began with Vance honoring Ziva's final favor and arranging for a small delivery of amenities to the children of Domiz. Since then, it had become her mission, a way to continue her humanitarian efforts when not present in the desert. At first primarily financed by her inheritance, funds for school supplies, teaching materials, clothes, and toys now came in from varied sources, including the non-for-profit organization that assisted Arab immigrants settling into America for which Leyla worked part-time. Even Delilah, amidst planning her wedding, used her connections with the elite of D.C. to set up fundraisers. All shipments were then made through the aid organization already established in the camp.

They called the project: Operation Sana. Partly because the former child refugee drew and painted stacks of artwork to accompany each delivery; and partly because every child left behind was Sana—afflicted with many of the same unfair, volatile circumstances and endowed with the same capacity to love and thrive, if given the opportunity.

And that was exactly what Ziva intended to do.

After saying their goodbyes to the children and to Gray, the feed disconnected with a crackle. Sana spared no time climbing into Ziva's lap, curling up like a kitten as she used to do when it was a tent over their heads instead of Gibbs' house—and the frame of their own already standing.

"What is it, my neshomeleh?"

"Don't know," she mumbled into the fabric of Ziva's shirt. Although learning English at a blazing pace, she reverted when emotional, as she was now.

Ziva finger-combed the silky strands of hair at her temple. "It seems you are sad, but you helped make the children in Domiz very happy today."

Sana craned her neck. A crease divided her chin; worry knit her brows into a deep fury. "Those kids have Mamas?"

"Some of them, yes. Some are orphans, as you were once."

The preschooler's dark eyes sparkled. "They going be adopted like me?"

A smile warmed Ziva's mouth; it had been official for a month, but the sheen had yet to diminish. "Perhaps, someday."

Sana's tiny hands clamped onto her mother's face, and she gazed deep into her eyes. "You stay with me. Be my Mama."

That she still worried and sought reassurance was normal for attaching, insisted Sana's therapist. For Ziva, each time was just another chance to show her love.

"I will stay with you," Ziva promised, placing a kiss to her daughter's forehead and enveloping her close. "Always."