He’d managed to be mostly respectful during class discussions, and kept his hands and feet to himself during gym. He’d even raised his hand a few times in the name of being helpful and passing out pencils, though he wasn’t called on.

But in spite of all that, here he was. It didn’t feel fair.

Particularly today. Because whether Mr. Willis and Mrs. Evans believed it or not . . .

“It’s really not my fault,” he tried again. “I don’t even know how it got here.”

It was the package currently resting in front of Mrs. Evans on the table. It was an innocent yellow mailer, sealed over with Scotch tape. Nothing about it said anything like DANGER or DEVASTATING REPORT CARD INSIDE. It looked like, if you turned it over, it would be something boring like his baba’s tax papers or maybe a trinket Ma ordered from overseas.

It was nothing special. At least on the outside.

Now Mrs. Evans heaved a heavy sigh. She reached for the package, tilting it downward so that its contents could slide into her palm.

“Be careful!” Ahmad gasped in spite of himself, leaning forward in his seat. Mrs. Evans shot him a dirty look but worked it out more carefully.

Though Ahmad had held it himself just half an hour ago, the sight of it made his heart lurch. It was a shiny game case, the type that held a Nintendo Switch cartridge. The cover, though, wasn’t the usual 3-D characters with smiling faces and multicolored backgrounds. It was pitch black, with embossed neon images—thin lined and finely detailed, like hand sketches—on its front. What looked like flying cars and, amazingly, rickshaws were etched over a skyline that looked almost like New York City.

At least, if New York City had buildings even more futuristic than the skyscrapers Ahmad passed on his way to school.

Even though he couldn’t see the title clearly from where Mrs. Evans held it to the light, he still mouthed it, quietly, to himself.

“The Battle.”

Mrs. Evans let out a hiss, startling both him and Mr. Willis, who leaned forward with a frown.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Evans?” he asked.

She frowned down at the game. “Yes. I think it was just static electricity.”

“It’s not just that,” Ahmad blurted out, even though inside his brain was chanting, Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, Ahmad. “It probably doesn’t like you.”

“Ahmad, really.” His teacher leaned forward and waved the game in his face. “Okay. For the last time, tell me what this is.”