Eli watched as Eliot lay down on the couch, where he would probably fall asleep. Something new caught Eli’s eye, and he zoomed in on it.

A tiny black cube sat on Eliot’s kitchen counter.

Marwan

MARWAN

He didn’t spot them until they were already at a table. His father had been out front and had seated them because of course he had no idea who they were. It was one of the things Marwan always found most unnerving about the restaurant. You never knew who was going to walk in.

“What are you doing here?” Marwan said after his father had left them at a two-top with menus.

“What does it look like?” Christos opened the menu.

“You’re not welcome here,” Marwan said.

Christos and his brother both laughed. “You hear this guy?” Christos said. “We’re not welcome. In Astoria. A Greek neighborhood.”

Marwan’s hands clenched into fists. Astoria was everyone’s.

Christos didn’t look up when he said, “Can we get some water?”

Marwan turned and walked toward his father, who had just returned to the burners after visiting a table. Marwan watched him chop parsley with ridiculous speed and precision. “Dad?” he said.

“Yes?” His father stopped, midchop. “Yes?”

Marwan pictured what would happen. A confrontation. A whole big scene. His father newly rattled and terrified and heartbroken.

He couldn’t do it.

“Nothing,” he said, then went back quickly to the staff room, where he unzipped his backpack and took the device out and put it back in again.

“Table six has requested you be their waiter,” Karim said a moment later.

Marwan went back out to the dining room and grabbed an order pad and approached the table. “What do you want?”

Christos looked up. “I want to be treated like you’d treat any other customer.”

“But you’re not.”

“I can complain.” He shifted in his seat, as if looking for Marwan’s father.

“What do you hope to gain from this whole exercise?” Marwan said.

“Dinner,” Christos said. His brother laughed.

“Do you even like Egyptian food?” Marwan said.

“Guess I’m about to find out,” Christos said, and looked back at his menu. “Would you recommend the grilled lamb chops or the kofta kebabs?”

By instinct, Marwan snapped into professional mode and described the two dishes.

Christos looked at him funny, then said, “Just pick one.”

Marwan turned to his brother. “And for you?”

“The one he didn’t pick, I guess.”

“Anything to drink?” Marwan asked, and took their menus.

“Water’s fine,” the brother said, and Christos shrugged and looked around as if realizing something. Not that he wasn’t welcome, but that he didn’t belong. It almost made Marwan feel bad for him.

Back in the staff room a while later, Marwan checked his phone.