There’s a plastic truck jammed into the pillow and I take it out, fiddling with its wheels. I stare at my phone, wishing I could just ring Ammi. Why couldn’t you tell me? I search my memory for anyone who might be Fawad. Did I meet him the few times I went to my grandparents’? Does he know anything about me? How I loved my Dora the Explorer backpack, how I liked to write and make poems? I stretch my arms in front of me, then straighten my legs. Everyone always said I was tall but I thought it was because I took after Naved. Is Fawad tall too? I take out my phone, tempted to even search him down and then I realize I don’t even know his last name. I have Abu’s name. I scrunch these thoughts down. Who cares about some strange man? Several times I try to text Fatima, then delete my message. What am I supposed to say? You thought your family was weird.

Shaima slips in, carrying a sheet, a folded blanket, and a pillow. She’s changed into a faded cotton print housedress and clipped up her hair, making her look even younger, barely a few years older than me. After tucking the sheet around the sofa cushions, she straightens. “I’m so sorry, Rania. That was quite a lot to take in, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say dully.

She pats the pillow. “Get some sleep, then.”

I’m still rigid, unable to move.

“If it helps,” she says, “I met Naved once. I see why your mother did what she did.” Then she disappears through the doorway.

Morning arrives, the sunshine astringent and clear. I did not sleep much last night. Snatches of memory: a younger uncle, chasing us around a garden. My grandmother giving me a sweet in a folded napkin. “Your ammi brings so much trouble,” she whispered. Trouble. That word. Abu back home, in the dim room on the bed, legs drawn in. I went to hug him, but there was a big bandage around his head. He gave me a groggy smile. Other words, behind the shut door: Abduction. Goons. My stomach hurt. Ammi, nervous when we went to the market. The two of them arguing. How long can we do this? Ammi straightening my leather book bag on my shoulder, saying Do not tell anyone at school. That’s when I began screwing everything shut inside me. Forgetting.

Now, as I get dressed, my thoughts are crisp, firm.

In the living room, I find Carlos sleeping with his wrist over his eyes. Leaning over, I whisper in his ear. He stirs, then springs up, heads for the bathroom, changes, and stuffs his dirty clothes in his backpack.