People lost stuff on their phones all the time.

Anyway, I have it now, Eli wrote.

You went back and got it?

Aizel texted me and told me to.

WHY DID YOU DO THAT? he wrote.

But he didn’t really care what the answer was. It was Eli’s problem now.

Marwan tried to download the Stitcher app again, but it kept timing out. He put his phone away and got on with his work; he’d deal with it later.

Even the restaurant was too small; like when you googled it, the description that came up called it a “tiny eatery.” It was on a stretch of Steinway Street called Little Egypt, and it only fit around twenty people at any given time, except in summer, when a back garden doubled capacity. Eden and her parents had come in for dinner once last spring. He and Eden had pretty much pretended they didn’t know each other. Or maybe just avoided eye contact, which was basically the same thing. Or maybe it hadn’t even been intentional on her part.

She hadn’t been in since the accident, though. If she had, maybe he would have said something to her about it.

His father arrived with his usual fanfare—“And there’s my favorite son!”—and soon after the second chef and two waiters arrived, the restaurant quickly sprang to life. In the open kitchen area by the door, herbs were rinsed and patted dry and chopped. Food prepped. Spices measured and blended. Oils heated. Then music was put on and candles lit. Marwan put his bike out back, then was sent on a last-minute run for Kosher salt from the corner bodega—the only kind his father would cook with.

A Jeep with Virginia plates was parked on the corner.

On a small TV behind the counter, the news: The California shooter’s girlfriend had been brought in for questioning. “Claims no previous knowledge of the plan … says her thoughts and prayers are with the families of the victims.”

It was nice out, nice enough to make Marwan wish he were back in the park with Eden but under different circumstances completely. Maybe finally he’d bring up her father and say something thoughtful, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that thing might be.

Customers arrived and were seated.

Orders were taken.

Water glasses filled.

Wine poured.

Starters served and cleared.

Dropped napkins replaced.

Water refilled.

Wine refilled.

On and on and on for several hours, with barely a break.

So a good night for a Thursday (good weather helped).

His father was happy and chatty, calling out greetings from the kitchen area but also circulating to visit tables. Some old friends of his came in: “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” A dramatic pause. “I would have locked the door and pulled down the gates!”

Marwan loved the restaurant. Not as much as his father did, though. Not enough.