Winnie gazed anxiously toward the kitchen door, where they could see Madame Nasirah humming to herself as she arranged their meal on one of her wide silver trays. Ahmad’s stomach growled as he caught sight of a heaping platter of pita, topped with generously spiced chicken breasts.

“I don’t know. Not yet. We need to stay alert. There’s just something about this that doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” Ahmad asked.

Winnie narrowed her eyes. “I just don’t know. Her little amnesia act, something about the way she looked at us to see whether or not we believed it. It just feels strange to me, Ahmad. Can’t you trust me on this one?”

She turned to him, her eyes pleading.

“We made a promise, remember?”

Ahmad huffed out a breath. He remembered, just as Winnie remembered how well he could draw in class and always seemed to think the best of him in spite of his overly quick tongue and how easily he could be distracted.

“Okay. I’ll follow your lead. But Vijay Bhai—”

“If he turns up, we explain it to her then,” Winnie rushed out. “But isn’t it weird to you? She’s supposed to know when new people enter the game, but she never mentioned him at all to you.”

“He’s not a player, though.”

Winnie waved it off impatiently.

“There’s no rest for us here, not when the rules keep changing,” Winnie said with a sigh. “We’ve got to stay alert so we can figure out what’s next. Keep your eyes and your ears peeled. Vijay Bhai will turn up, but in the meantime, we need to rest up for tomorrow.”

Ahmad was about to respond, but Winnie shook her head, silencing him as Madame Nasirah brought in the tray, humming to herself. “Your dinner, my dears. Eat up. You’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AHMAD AWOKE TO A scrabbling in the dark.

For a moment, a brief, irrational, blissfully warm moment, he thought it was mice. Of course. That’s what he got for sneaking snacks into bed during his late-night gaming sessions. Ma would be so mad at him.

I warned you about this! she would say.

After all, mice would be mice. The lure of food was absolutely irresistible to them, even in the wilds of the Upper East Side, where death traps lurked, well, everywhere.

Death traps.

Ahmad’s eyes snapped open.

He wasn’t in the Upper East Side. The mice—the kind guardians of their journey thus far—were a furry, softly snoring heap in the far corner of the room.

They had snuck in late, feasting on cake rusk and anxiously sharing their fears about the eerie stillness of the city while Ahmad and Winnie counted and recounted their equipment, tucking away their precious puzzle pieces.

“Not a soul to be seen in the souk!” one had squeaked.