Amina must be thinking about food too, because her stomach lets out a loud gurgle. The unexpected sound breaks the tension. Miranda starts to giggle. Javier joins in, and then Grace, although her laugh has an edge of hysteria. The more they try to keep quiet, the harder it is not to make noise. Even Cole wears a half smile.

Amina looks mortified. She whispers, “I was about to have my lunch. Then everything happened.”

“That sounds nice,” Grace says wistfully. “Something normal.”

“It’s still here.” Amina gets to her feet. “Do you guys want to split it? It’s stew and bread.”

With no Oxy left in her system, Miranda feels more like throwing up than eating, but everyone else either shrugs or nods.

Amina comes back from her locker with a wide-mouthed thermos and a small brown paper bag. After opening the bag, she tears off pieces of flatbread pocked with black scorch marks and passes them around.

Years ago, back when Miranda’s family was still a family, they used to go to church. The first Sunday of the month, they took communion: a tiny glass of grape juice and a pale papery wafer plucked from a passed plate. Like then, this bread seems as if it could be magical. Like a sign they will make it. Despite her queasiness, Miranda takes a half-dollar-size piece and lets it rest on her tongue. It tastes of flour and corn meal and char. Miraculously, her stomach doesn’t rebel. Eventually she chews and swallows.

Meanwhile, Amina hands the thermos to Cole. He peers down, looking dubious. “I thought you said it was stew.”

“It is. It’s a Somali stew.” Amina raises her chin. “Sahan ful. Fava beans with tomato sauce.”

He lifts the white plastic spoon to his lips, but at the first taste his expression smooths out. “This is really good.”

After two bites, he hands the thermos to Miranda. The smell of ginger, cloves, and chiles overwhelms her temporary truce with her stomach. After hastily handing the thermos to Grace, she leans closer to Amina and whispers, “I’m sorry, my stomach’s just upset.” She swallows and adds, “And I’m sorry I suggested it was Muslims who are doing this.”

“It’s not the first time someone’s implied I’m a terrorist just because I wear a hijab.” Amina raises her dark eyes to Miranda’s. “I was born here. I’m just as much an American as you are.”

Before Miranda can come up with an answer, Grace says, “Excuse me, but do you know if these beans are organically grown?”

Amina and Miranda share an amused/annoyed glance, and the tension between them breaks. “I have no idea,” Amina says with a shrug.

Grace hesitates, then digs in the spoon. Her eyebrows go up. “Yum. That’s spicy, but in a good way.”