His father and uncle started a game of backgammon. Russell knew how much Harry hated it when he took a long time to roll, and so Russell shook the dice in the felt-lined leather cup, going to turn the cup over but then holding it upright again and continuing to shake.

In the humidity both of their faces were red with sun and piña coladas. Ben’s dad didn’t lose every game, but his face was so different from his older brother’s. For Russell, this was a way to unwind, to pleasantly occupy the parts of his mind that were under strain at work and home, letting a thoroughbred out into a lush pasture so it could feel its legs.

But Harry was full on. He held his head and upper body over the cork board, slightly moving his lips as he counted the heavy, smoky-plastic pieces from point to point. Russell shook the dice and held them, shook them and still held them and smiled, and Harry tried to smile back. Ben always thought of his dad as a success until he saw him with Russell.

Ben found an unoccupied armchair and started reading. When he came back at check-in with so much still left to do, Ahmed smiled to him, how easily he couldn’t tell, and Ben was glad he hadn’t been the one who pushed Ahmed’s hand away from the rock.

With no hesitation, Ahmed said he thought he would play club soccer—the first practice was the next day—but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to do that and keep up with all of the work.

“No, it’ll help you,” Ben said. “You’ll get to run in the afternoon and then you’ll be more ready to concentrate afterward.”

Ahmed broke into that basking smile.

“Ben, with you I will learn just how to be.”

4. The Sacrificial Element

4. The Sacrificial Element

THE NEXT MORNING DURING HIS FREE THIRD PERIOD, BEN SAT ON a wooden bench outside the office of the Dean of Students on the third floor of the Schoolhouse trying to get further through his Approaches reading. After Chapel that morning, Mr. Dennett, Hawley’s Head of House, had handed him a note asking him to come see the Dean, and so here Ben was, wondering if he had already done something wrong. Had Ahmed complained?

The Dean of Students’ office was on the same third-floor hallway as College Admissions, the Athletic Director, and the Bursar, and the name of each department was painted on each door in dull gold outlined in black. The walls up here were bare of student posters, and the smell was different too: dripped coffee burned off a warming plate, toner from a big copy machine, the perfume of the women who ran the offices. Ben heard low voices from inside the Dean’s office but otherwise the floor seemed empty.