“Amir!” I heard my mom’s voice and her footsteps, rushing down the stairs. She knelt beside me. Her face was inches from mine, and she stroked my cheek like I was a little child.

“I can’t go back,” I sobbed. “I can’t. I’m already here. And I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.”

I was shaking my head, my chest rising and falling sharply.

My mom just held me. She stroked my hair back. “Amir, we want you back. Please come home. It’s okay. We love you. Please come home.”

I saw my dad running down the stairs, three steps at a time, his face intensely focused as he brought my mom a wet cloth. My sister helped my mom clean up my cuts, wipe the soil off my cheeks. I tried to protest, but they wouldn’t let me. I stopped talking, stopped whimpering, even, as I realized this: I was still their son. Their brother. Even knowing I was gay—even after I had exposed my whammies, even after the entire tally system broke down and there were no more points left, nothing else to score—they were still my family.

Interrogation Room 37

Amir

HOW AM I FEELING? Nervous. Emotional. It’s like I got swept up in a sandstorm yesterday and now I can’t see clearly.

I’ve had this terrible thought stuck in my head ever since the drive back to Rome with my family. It sounds awful to say it out loud, but . . . I didn’t have to go with them. It all happened so quickly, and the fact that they flew all the way out to Italy—that meant something to me. So I went. But as we drove through the Italian countryside, I sat mostly silent in the back of the car with Soraya.

My mom did ask if I wanted to stop somewhere and change into clean clothes, and I said no. I’m sorry, sir. If I had known I was going to end up in here, talking to you for so long, I would have at least taken a shower.

Later That Day

WE ARRIVED IN Rome sometime in the afternoon to pack up my stuff. My apartment was on the fourth floor, the first one in a corridor just off the stairs. On the way up, Soraya wouldn’t stop complaining about how hot it was. She was convinced the heat was going to damage her vocal cords. My mom commented that the flowers in the building’s central courtyard were very pretty. My dad carried my duffel bag and said nothing.

When we reached my door, I let the key sit in the keyhole for a bit and closed my eyes. Then I pushed open the door.

Soraya stepped inside first. “This is where you’ve been living?” Her eyes darted around the single room, the small kitchen in the back, the unmade bed underneath the window.

“Yeah,” I said.

She put one hand on her hip. “My dressing room is bigger than this.”