“He’s a friend. And he’s all alone.” I add, “I have Kamal. And Ammi.” Then, “And now my uncle.”

She sighs. “So what are you asking?”

“Will you be his lawyer?”

Her silence is longer than I like.

“Why did you tell that lady we’re with Uncle?” Kamal asks when I come out of the bathroom.

I make a face at him. “You shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations.”

“Are we going back to see them?” he asks.

“Do you want to?”

“I want to play with Roshaan and Maira.”

I look at him. He’s sitting on the bed, kicking his feet against the spread. I feel badly—all these changes, the stories I make up on the fly. “Get dressed,” I say. “I changed my mind. You can have fried clams again.”

“And ice cream?”

“You’re pushing it.”

Carlos still hasn’t returned, so I load up my backpack with towels, lotion, water, books. Act like it’s a normal day.

I drive to town, where I find some generic New England postcards, already stamped. Dimitri, the cook, goes into Boston every week for supplies, so I’ll ask him to mail them from there. We eat, Kamal happily dipping his clams in sauce. I squeeze some lemon on them, tell him that’s the way to get some Vitamin C. Then I take out a postcard and write: Dear Ammi, we miss you very much. We’re good. Kamal is eating and growing and having a great time. I can’t wait to see you soon. Love, Rania.

“Who are you writing to?” Kamal asks.

“A friend.”

“Why don’t you text?”

“She collects postcards.”

“Fatima?”

This stabs me. I check my phone. No message. I’ve ruined everything: with her. And with Carlos, all because of a stupid kiss. Not even a real kiss.

“Hey.”

There’s Carlos, his backpack angled over his shoulder. Relief sweeps through me but I tamp down the urge to hug him.

Kamal’s face brightens. “Carlos!”

I scrunch to the side of my chair, as he joins us, pops a fried clam into his mouth. “Man, these are good.”

“Where were you?” I keep the scowl out of my voice.

“Ernie asked me to join him on some supply pickups.” He bends toward Kamal and taps his bicep. “Me, strong,” he teases. “Lift fifty-pound sack.”

Kamal giggles, but I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gives me a blank look. “I was working, Rania. It’s money.”

I squash down my hurt.

“You want to go on a trip?” he asks.

“We’re on a trip,” I grumble.

“Trip!” Kamal chimes.

I don’t really have a choice since Carlos has Kamal excited. We pay up and I slide the postcard into my bag. Next time I’ll write one without lies.