It’s perfect for him. There’s a small sandy beach sloping toward the water’s edge. A floating dock, where clusters of children are jumping into the pond. Kamal lets me rub him with lotion. He slides on his floaties and then stands with his ankles in the shallows. There are so many kids—all ages—splashing and tossing rubber balls and kicking in little round tubes. I sit on our towel and just watch Kamal, smiling at his bony back, the way he tentatively skims his fingers on the surface. I don’t push him. Slowly he goes deeper, up to his calves, then his knees. I can tell it’s super shallow because it takes a while to get up to his shoulders. And then suddenly, he’s in, thrashing around in his awkward dog paddle, his orange floaties flashing in the sun. I lie down on my towel, content.

A shadow falls across my eyes.

“Hey.”

A guy is standing over me. My blood jumps. Then I realize it’s Carlos. He drops down beside me. I’ve never seen him in a bathing suit—his is navy blue with white stripes and a too-big drawstring that cinches around his narrow waist. He’s just come off a shift and walked here. I can see sweat beading around his neck. His hair curls sweetly around his ears. They are delicate, elfin.

“That’s a long walk,” I say.

“I’ve walked longer.”

He’s in one of his moods. Carlos gets those sometimes. I figure it’s because he’s thinking about his aunt. Or what he’s doing next. He ducks into silence or brings out his drawing pad and soon gets lost in his work. He told me he loves this landscape, the scrub pine with their gnarly branches mirrored, upside down, in the shimmering ponds. There’s no prying a word out of him. I’ve brought my notebook too, scribbling down thoughts, sputters of writing.

“This is great, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we could do this always?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you can earn some money off your drawing. We could make books together. I’ll write the captions. We’ll sell them. And—”

“Rania,” he warns. “Let’s just be here for now. Okay?”

“Okay.”

We go back to our work, but I’m feeling jumpy, unable to concentrate. I can’t stand his silence anymore, so I ask, “What are you going to do?”

“Do about what?”

“Your situation.”

He goes back to his drawing, hand cupped around a charcoal nub. My heart is galloping in my chest, as I think, I have to help him. I’ll call Lidia. She’ll figure something out. But when I tell him my idea, he puts a hand on my arm. “Rania, stop. It’s better this way. No plans. We’ll figure it out.”