He checked his phone during a lull. A text from the device said, You can have it all back when you apologize.

Now all his apps were gone, and his usual home screenshot—a picture of him midkick on the soccer field last spring—had been swapped out for just a black wallpaper.

The sound was unrecognizable at first.

Thump?

Crack?

Pow-pow.

Not gunfire. But what?

Marwan turned to it, saw a whir of a figure running by out front.

Yellow yolks left slow trails down the glass.

Shouts of “Go! Go! Go!”

Chairs skidded. His father abandoned the stove and went out the front door. Marwan followed.

Tires squealed.

But which car?

There were so many cars.

People stared confusedly.

There were so many people.

Small folded pieces of paper and rubber bands lay scattered on the sidewalk among cracked shells.

Marwan picked one up.

Sticky.

Unfolded it with just index fingers and thumbs.

GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY

He started to gather them all up—sticky or not—so he could make sure his father never read one. But it was too late. Marwan saw it in slow motion, noting a speck of parsley on his father’s right thumb as he opened one of the notes; and the way the paper swung to the ground like a pendulum when his father dropped it; and the way his father’s knees hit the sidewalk—first one, then a millisecond later, the other.

Hard.

Like it hurt.

Marwan went to call the police. But his phone wouldn’t change screens away from the device’s last text.

Looking up for a second, he saw a Utah plate right there.

But how could he ever leave? To stay was to take a stand. Was there even anywhere better to go?

His mind felt blank. Like he tried to think of the name of the beauty queen and couldn’t. Eight episodes in and he was drawing a blank.

He typed into the reply field—I’m sorry—and hit send.

Eden

EDEN

Her mother had left an elaborate dinner plate—her usual way of apologizing for not being home when Eden got home from therapy—and it was definitely good enough to partially make up for the wedding soup.