Late afternoon: a group of kids having fun at a table, collaging keepsake boxes with shiny squares and stars and glue. I put a star on Kamal’s nose and he squeals with laughter. Then my phone buzzes. I almost don’t pick up, but then I see it’s Fatima. She’s crying. “I hate him!” she says.

“Who?”

“My father! He said no! He doesn’t want my mom getting involved.”

I lean back against my chair, take a few sharp breaths.

“I’m so sorry,” she cries. “I begged my mom. To please, not to listen to him. For once!” She sniffles. “But she would never do that. God, how I hate them both.”

I don’t have time to hate either of them.

I wrench up from the table, out of the room and up the stairs, just as Carlos comes bounding toward me, proudly flourishing a cinnamon bun in a wrapper, dripping with icing. I try to push past him, but he blocks me. His face goes still. “Someone disappoint you?”

My throat constricts. “How did you know?”

“I know what it’s like,” he says softly.

“I just want to go to graduation! Sleep in my own bed.” I drop down on a step, tears welling in my eyes.

He looks awkward, arms dangling, then sits beside me. “That’s the worst thing. Figuring out who you can count on.”

“She was my best friend,” I whisper.

“Maybe she still is.”

He hands me the cinnamon roll. I take a bite. The icing melts sweet in my mouth.

That night, like all nights, is the hardest. The cries that pierce the dark. There’s an air conditioner in our window but even with the gurgling hum, still I can hear them: the shuffling, restless sounds of other children. Lost children. I keep seeing the desert that Carlos described: a terrible dry field, riven with cracks and fissures. Too many sounds: those who call out in terror. Or the ones who whimper. The others like Rosa who are numb and shiny-eyed, mute. Which is worse. I see all the faces of the social workers, drawn and tired; the art therapist who keeps coaxing children to draw what they feel. I climb up the bunk ladder and gaze at Kamal, stroking his hair. I just want to look and touch him, over and over.

He rolls over, mumbling, “What?”

“Nothing,” I say.