“I mean, if you’re gonna fight people, I think I should know,” she added seriously, as though this was an important family discussion.

“Uh, no,” I said. “No one’s fighting anyone.” Here I was, trying to plan the destruction of someone’s life, and a 12-year-old was casually asking if I was going to fight someone.

“Yeah,” Jamal mused, clearly enjoying the situation. “You’ll have to run that by my sister first. She’s been taking karate lessons for months now.”

I turned to look at her again. She was now performing a dramatic karate kata, complete with sound effects.

She kicked a pillow off the couch and looked at me for approval. “You think my kick’s good?” she asked, breathless.

I blinked. “Uh, yeah. You’d definitely take me down in one move.”

“If you need a sidekick, I’m available. Just say the word.”

“Great,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Just what I need.”

She grinned, clearly pleased with herself, and plopped back onto the couch, kicking her feet up. “You’d be unstoppable with me on your team.”

I shook my head, trying to refocus. “Jamal, seriously. I just need to know if you can get me a bat.”

He turned the TV down, looking over at the door kitchen, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I still don’t like this, Blake. But if you’re really gonna do it...”

His parents were still chatting, and the sound of it almost felt like a distant hum against the anger rattling inside me. I knew enough to tell that they were talking about me. I caught a few words like “different,” “angry,” and “why,” which made me wonder if they knew exactly what I was planning.

I turned toward them and, without thinking, blurted out in Arabic, “I’m dealing with something important.”

Jamal’s dad looked at me, eyes wide for a split second, and then his face softened. Jamal’s mom shot me a smile and waved her hand dismissively, as if she didn’t care what I was talking about as long as I didn’t do something reckless.

“Fine,” Jamal whispered after a long pause. “You want a bat? I can get you one. Uncle Reggie has one in his garage. You can take it if you want. It’s been through some things, though. So...don’t expect it to be top-tier.”

His mom called out to us then, asking if we wanted to eat.

“Blake, you want some food?” she asked, peeking her head around the corner. “Don’t listen to this one,” she said, pointing to Jamal. “Come, sit, eat.”

Jamal groaned, flopping down into a chair.

His dad caught me by surprise as he handed me a plate.

“You think too much,” he said in thick-accented English, giving me a stern look.

I muttered a quiet “thanks” as Jamal’s mom placed a tray of hummus and pita bread in front of us.