He introduced himself in an English spoken just strangely enough to lend the language the empathy it often lacks. He was striking, his close-cut sideburns giving way to tight curlicues that charmingly splayed over his forehead. It wasn’t until he refused the cot in Imam Salim’s room and slept on the mosque’s floor that we began to double-check our hasty assumption of his imposture. When he showered in the filthy ablution chamber, we figured he was, in all likelihood, a genuine paragon.