Sam nodded and swung back a little, while still holding on to the top frame, until I tapped him on the shin and shook my head at him and he straightened up. “Sure—so you can try and find out what’s happening back home, email people and stuff. Is your dad still there? Maybe you can look for him. . . .”

At that, Merjeme pulled her legs up and hugged them to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and I suddenly wanted to make Sam shut up.

“Hey—where’s Arta?”

She looked at me and nodded her head somewhere to the left of us. “Painting,” she said. And then she must have decided that that was a better place to be, because she crawled to the end of her bunk and waved at Sam to hop off—which he did—so she could get down.

“I show you,” she said, and waved us to follow.

We climbed down the staircase and across the grass toward the administration building, from where Luca and Mr. Trần were just emerging.

“Jed, come help me unload!” his dad called, and Jed jogged over to him, the two of them heading for Mr. Trần’s white van.

“Come, I show you the rec room,” Merjeme said, and then she reached for my hand again, and Sam’s too.

The rec room was more like a big hall, with wooden floors, a raised stage down the back, and a little canteen to the side with the roller door shut. Plastic tables and chairs lined the room, as if this was also where everyone ate. But that day only one of the tables was being used, by little kids who were painting on butcher’s paper, under the supervision of volunteers in Red Cross vests.

Arta was among the kids and Merjeme ran over, forgetting about us. Instead she fetched a smock from a crate under the table and pulled a chair up next to her sister.

“You must be Luca’s kids.”

Sam and I looked over at a little old lady in a volunteer vest who was smiling at us. She had short, white curly hair and wore gold-framed glasses.

“Uh—yeah,” I said. “He’s just outside—I can go get him if you like. . . .”

She waved the idea away. “Knowing Luca, he’s probably busy being helpful. I’m Dorothea—one of the grandma volunteers.”

I realized then that a few of the volunteers helping the little kids were very old.

“Grandma volunteers?” Sam said.

Dorothea was collecting discarded paintbrushes and dunking them in jars of clean water to rinse. “Of course—Grandparents for Refugee Children. We’re a little organization of volunteers whose own grandkids are grown, so we figured we’d give our time to these kids that needed us.”

We stayed there for a bit, until Luca came to fetch us.