“No,” I lied. “They won’t tell me. All they said is two guys stole money from my dad when he was in his garage.” We were strolling from row house to row house, ringing the doorbells of only those with their lights on. Auntie Siham stayed on the sidewalk behind us, pulling her gray coat tightly around her, the wind whipping her silky black hair around her face. I loved Nadia’s mother—she was always cool and stylish, serving baklava in tiny, pink plates and juice in matching pink glasses whenever I visited. She was so unlike Mama, who always seemed frantic about something, who walked around muttering to herself and embarrassed me whenever I had friends over.

“My mom is completely losing it,” I said. “She told me I can’t go out by myself again, ever.”

“I know. My mom was at your house pretty late last night.”

So I hadn’t dreamed that part. But what about the image of Baba’s body, riddled with bullets lying beside his aluminum cart? Of masked men crouching behind my closet door under my bed? Of screaming out for Baba but not being rescued?

Auntie Siham had invited Mama to walk with us, saying the cold air would clear her mind, but she stayed home anyway with Baba, who’d been with her all day long. When I woke up that morning and came downstairs, they were huddled on the couch with their coffee cups, sharing an afghan that was draped over them both. When I left to trick-and-treat, they had moved to the kitchen table, still drinking coffee, not talking much, just staring down at their hands or up at the ceiling. Baba had stayed home from the city that day, because it was a Saturday. He only worked on the cart from Monday through Friday, taking orders for hot dogs, sandwiches, cheesesteaks, and hamburgers, even on the coldest days when the rain hammered down and the wind rattled his aluminum cart, the one with the green, foldout awning, that he hitched to the back of our car and drove to the corner of 16th and Market five days a week.