I think of how Ama was with me, too. Memories sigh and shift, ancient creatures long slumbering. Strange memories—things I haven’t thought of for a long time: Wishing for Ama when I was surrounded by other kids. Telling a teacher I needed to go home. Saying it, then shouting it, then screaming it. Anger filling me, panic, a need for control, and none of it making sense.

  Ama with a gentle hand on my chest. “Bas, Putar, bas.” Enough, Son, enough.

  Nightmares. A dark room. A blue door.

  I realize I’ve made some sort of sound, because the room is silent and both Dr. Ellis and Ms. McCann are looking at me.

  “Ms. McCann,” I say. “My dad . . . has a problem.” I try to pretend the doctor isn’t sitting there, judging me. “He drinks. A lot.” Now I know why Noor talks in short sentences. Sometimes it’s the only way to get through a conversation. “He should stop but he doesn’t. He’s not a dad anymore to me.”

  It’s the first time I’ve admitted that fact out loud. Even to myself.

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way for Ashlee.”

  Ms. McCann stands up quickly. “I’ll—I’ll go find the attending doctor.” She turns to me. “Thank you for coming, honey. You’re just like your mom.”

  I can’t imagine when Ama’s path crossed with Ms. McCann’s—but then I think of all the people I never met who showed up to Ama’s funeral. “You knew her?”

  “Yeah.” She looks sadder than before, even. “She didn’t know me. But I knew her.”

  A nurse escorts Ms. McCann away and I’m left staring at Dr. Ellis.

  “Salahudin,” she says quietly. “I’ve been calling you.”

  “You have?” For a brief, paranoid second, I think she’s seen me dealing. But then I remember all the missed calls from the hospital. The pile of unpaid bills.

  “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you. It’s a bit sensitive.”

  I stand. “I’m getting the money together to pay the hospital,” I say. “You—you don’t need to call me about it.”

  It’s weird that she called me. She wasn’t even Ama’s doctor—she’s mine. I open the door, because I want to get the hell out of there, but Dr. Ellis follows me into the ER.

  “Sal, I wasn’t calling about the bills,” she says, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “Did—did your mother ever speak to you about your medical records?”

  “My medical records? Why would she talk to me about that?” I stop walking, alarmed. “Is there something wrong with me? Do I have a—a disease or something—”

  “No! Nothing like that.” Dr. Ellis looks around at the ER, waving half-heartedly when a nurse calls out a greeting. “I’d just like to discuss your records with you. I’ll call you. Here—”

  She digs out her cell phone, takes my number, and sends me a message. “Now you’ll know it’s me,” she says. “And Sal?” She shifts from foot to foot. “When I call, please pick up. It’s important.”

  * * *

  Outside the hospital, I run into Art, skulking in the shadows.

  “If you’re here to see your cousin, go see her,” I say. “But if you’re here to talk to me, piss off.”

  Art looks around. For cops probably. “The police impounded her Mustang. Did you say anything—”

  “ ‘How’s my cousin, Sal?’ ” I mimic his loud voice. “ ‘What did the doctor say?’ ” Art has the decency to at least look chagrined. “Thanks for asking, asshole,” I say in my own voice. “Tox test showed that she mixed Oxy with some horrible shit called carfentanyl—that patch you sold her. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  Art breathes a sigh of relief because I guess he’s not a complete monster.

  “I’m done with this,” I say. “I’m not selling anymore.”

  “Sal, don’t be such a bitch—”

  I walk away from him quickly, and it feels like walking through quicksand. Because I’m not really walking away from Art. Or the drugs. Or dealing. I’m walking away from the motel. From hope.

  I’m walking away from Ama’s dream.

  * * *

  It’s afternoon when I get home, and I can’t find Abu anywhere. He doesn’t usually go out at this hour. Four p.m. is peak oblivion time.

  The house has been cleaned. Not as well as when Noor and I did it, but a definite improvement over its usual state.

  I walk out to the front yard, beneath the three trees Ama said represented our family. Despite how cold it still is in the morning, the trees shoot new leaves, and the wind has a touch of the zephyr in it.

  A hinge moans; the laundry room door swings open. “Abu?” I loiter outside the door, unwilling to enter.

  “You don’t need to come in, Salahudin,” my father says. “I’m nearly done.”

  I’m so used to hearing him slurred and sloppy that I’m confused.

  As I watch him, I realize he’s sober. His hands shake and he’s sweating. But he’s clear-eyed as he peers at me through his thick glasses.

  We’ll see how long this lasts.

  “I can help you fold,” I say.

  “You have homework? Or . . .” He is ginger with his words, afraid of how I will respond. Maybe I shouldn’t doubt him. Ama would want me to support him. She always did.

  “Yeah, I have some homework,” I say. “A couple of tests next week.”

  “Ah. Go then,” he says. “There’s Kiri cheese and saltines in the fridge.” I’m surprised he remembers my favorite snack. “I—won’t be home tonight. I have a—a meeting with Janice—do you remember—”

  “Your sponsor.” A tendril of hope pokes its head out from the desert in my head. “I remember.”

  I could be angry at him. Tell him he waited too long to stop drinking. That Ama and I deserved better. Right now, it might actually sink in.

  But I think of Shafiq. This life is jihad—struggle. Sometimes the struggle is more than any sane person can bear.

  “I’m proud of you, Abu. I know it’s not easy.”

  “It hasn’t been easy for you,” Abu says. “It’s been very easy for me. But now—I am changing. Your mother.” His voice dips. “She would have been ashamed of me.” Abu takes a deep breath. “The fortieth day after her death has passed, Putar. We should have read Qur’an at her graveside. We didn’t. But we could now. It would bring her comfort. We—we—”

  Abu bows his head—mourning as the truth of his own words breaks over him. Until now, Ama’s absence felt temporary. Like she was traveling. A trip to Pakistan, maybe. A few weeks visiting Uncle Faisal. She’d be back. Of course she’d be back.

  The fortieth day is so permanent. We didn’t even mark it.

  I go to him, but as soon as I enter the laundry room, the smell of detergent and bleach hits me and I want to vomit. Once, I asked Ama why the smell made me so sick.

  “It’s like how Noor hates small spaces. It’s just how you are.”

  Abu’s face is strained as he watches me.

  “I’m fine.” I lurch back out. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

  “You—” His face ripples, collapses, and all the strength that made him Abu again for a few minutes is gone. He slides down the side of the washer, heaving great, silent sobs.

  I breathe through my mouth and walk in because I don’t know what else to do. I hold him in my arms. He’s so much smaller than me. Sometime in the last year, I became taller than my father, bigger than my father, stronger than my father, and I hate the unfairness of it.

  He sobs, this fearless man who buried his parents and crossed oceans, who fell in love with a woman he barely knew and built a life with her in a desolate place.

  “I miss her,” Abu whispers. “She knew all my secrets.”

  I whisper a prayer and hug Abu the way Ama used to hug me. Like hope lived in her skin and if she held me long enough, it would live in mine, too.

  “You can tell me your secrets, Abu,” I say. “I’ll hold them for you.”

  “I couldn’t keep anyone safe. Not my cousin or Phopo. Not my parents. Not your ama. Not you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not you’?”

  But Abu pulls away and turns his back like he can’t stand the sight of me. I hear that Elizabeth Bishop poem. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

  She was right. I already lost my mother. Now I’m losing my father, too.

  chapter 33

  Misbah

  November, then

  When you were born, my son, you were gentle-eyed like your father, and wild-haired like me. So quiet as you looked up, as we beheld you that first time.

  Your father whispered the call to prayer in your ear. You listened and it was just the three of us in a perfect moment. You ate well. You slept like a dream. You woke up every morning with a smile. Chubby and happy and sweet. The motel guests loved you. They always said you should be in baby food commercials. Your grandparents adored you from afar. Baba paraded your picture to the whole ilaqa.

  Your father—my God, you were his pride and joy. He came home from work to feed you every lunchtime, even if it meant he barely got a chance to eat his own meal. He rocked you to sleep at night. He clipped your tiny nails so carefully that you laughed when he did it. I could not believe he ever thought he would be a bad parent.

  You were my world. But to you father, Salahudin? You were the solar system. Bigger. The universe itself. “He will be a neurosurgeon,” your father said. “He will be a writer. He will be an architect.”

  Such plans he had for you. Such dreams. But is that not the case for all of us? We plan. We dream. We hope.

  In America, on some days the dream feels so close you can taste it. And children, my putar? Children are the greatest dream of all. A dream manifest—walking, talking, venturing into the wide world. Open to success and joy and greatness. Open to wild, spectacular possibility.

  But open to destruction, also.

  chapter 34

  Noor

  May, now

  “You’re not going to school. Are you sick?”

  It’s only been a day since I punched Jamie. Chachu is at my bedroom door. I’m curled up in bed, pretending to be nauseous. I’m even clutching a trash can to my chest.

  Chachu’s not buying it.

  “Do you have a fever?”

  “My body hurts.” At least that’s not a lie. I’m still bruised from Darth Derek’s tackle.

  My uncle’s eyes narrow. “What is your illness?” he asks. “Symptoms?”

  “Headache and fever,” Brooke says from the door. Turns out she’s a better liar than I knew. “And she threw up last night.”

  Chachu lays a hand against my forehead. I try not to cringe.

  “You are not throwing up, you have no fever, and you apparently have all of your cognitive functions.” He drops his arm. “Therefore, if you will not attend school, you will help me at the shop. It’s going to be busy.”

  “Shaukat—” Brooke says right when I say “Chachu—”

  “Get up. An idle mind breeds mischief.”

  He leaves. Brooke leans against my doorframe and meets my eyes. Be careful, she seems to be saying. Easy enough. I can keep my mouth shut if she does.

  Chachu’s right about being busy. The Megaball is at nine hundred million, so there’s already a line when we open up at six a.m. A few of the regulars tease Chachu, asking if he has a theorem about their chances of winning.

  But he keeps the graph paper hidden. Even Chachu knows it’s stupid to explain statistical impossibilities to lotto customers.

  After an hour, the stream of people slows. When the last one leaves, Chachu launches into an explanation of statistical probability—or improbability, in the case of the lottery.

  “In short . . .” He digs out a Pall Mall and lights it. “Everyone who buys a ticket is an imbecile.”

  “What would you do if you won?” The question is out of my mouth before I can think.

  “You weren’t listening.” Chachu blows smoke at me. “As usual. First I’d have to buy a lottery ticket, Noor. Which I would never do. Because it’s futile.”

  I turn back to the slushie machine I’m cleaning. Chachu says hope is for half-wits. But someone out there will win this prize.

  Am I stupid for hoping that UCLA will let me in? That their letter got lost, and the admissions portal is glitching? It’s a long shot. A statistical improbability, Chachu would say.

  But I still imagine myself walking that brick-and-limestone campus. Taking classes and studying in the library and going to shows at clubs I’ve only ever read about.

  The door jangles. “Hey, Noor. Hey, Mr. Riaz.”

  Jamie Jensen. “Seven Devils” by Florence and the Machine plays in my head. Jamie is all seven.

  In my head, I tackle her. Throw a bag of slushie mix at her head. A rift opens in the crust of the earth and swallows her whole.

  In real life, I stare. Chachu nods a greeting. He knows her vaguely.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Noor.” Jamie’s nose looks fine. A little red. Either she has an incredible plastic surgeon or Ernst was full of it when he said I “severely damaged” her face.

  She grabs a Luna bar and a Smartwater, and offers Chachu cash. “Are you heading to school today, Noor?”

  I don’t trust my voice, so I shake my head.

  “Oh, right.” Jamie makes a fake sad face. “You got suspended. I hope it doesn’t affect college admissions.”

  She is jealous, Auntie Misbah said once when I complained about Jamie. She wishes to be the biggest fish in a small pond. It bothers her that you wish to find a bigger, more interesting pond.

  Is that why Jamie hates me so much? Salahudin wondered about it. Maybe her parents didn’t hug her as a kid. But Chachu didn’t hug me either, and I’m not a monster. Maybe it’s not because of parents or childhood. Maybe some people are awful and there’s no rhyme or reason to it.

  “College?” Chachu’s voice is level. He doesn’t look at me.

  “Chachu,” I say. “I didn’t—”

  “You worked so hard on those applications.” Her eyes glint, and I think of her accusation—that Salahudin wrote my essays for me. “Immigrants, they get the job done, right? See you later!”

  She walks out as Robert, a regular who talks too much, enters. I’ve never been so happy to see him. Chachu doesn’t seem upset. Another customer arrives, and another. Chachu rings them up without looking at me.

  A roar outside. The Coors truck pulls up. “Restock the freezer,” Chachu says to me. No clip to his words. His hands are loose. Shoulders are relaxed.

  Maybe he didn’t believe Jamie.

  I finish with the Coors delivery. Then I mop, restock the candy, sweep the front sidewalk, and dust. By the time Brooke walks in at noon, I’m loitering in the back. If Chachu doesn’t see me for a bit, maybe he’ll forget I exist.

  “Noor,” he calls. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  “I can—uh—stay and help Brooke.”

  “You should rest,” he says flatly. “So you don’t re-sicken yourself.”

  He jerks his head to the door. Brooke glances up from the magazine she’s picked up. Uncertain. Chachu glares at her. I try to catch her eyes, but she won’t look at me.

  Everyone has a lizard instinct. That voice that says don’t touch that poisonous snake, or step away from the train tracks, idiot. The instinct that keeps you alive.

  I’ve lost most of what happened before the earthquake. But I know that on that morning, the dogs were acting weird. Yipping and snarling. Even our German shepherd nipped at me when I tried to give her breakfast. It unsettled me. I was her favorite.

  I don’t remember my family’s faces well. Or their voices. I don’t remember our dog’s name. But I remember the sound of the earth groaning. Like our dog’s growl. Deeper, though. Older.

  People began yelling. I ran to my parents’ room. To the closet. I didn’t think. Instinct pulled me there. Forced me to open the door. To fold myself inside that tiny space. To make myself small and silent as my whole world bled and broke and died slow.

  Instinct kept me alive that day. It’s screaming now. Raging at me. Don’t go, Noor.

  “Get in the car, Noor.” Almost before he finishes saying my name, I’m walking to the car. Opening the door.

  Some things are stronger than instinct.

  Fear. Habit. Despair.

  I get in the car.

  chapter 35

  Sal

  The morning after Jamie’s fight with Noor, I swing by Noor’s house, but no one answers the door. I’ve texted her about fifty times—to no avail. I go to school because I hope she’ll be in class. But she’s not. So I ditch.

  On my way home, Ms. McCann texts.

  Ms. McCann: Discharge this afternoon! Ash is tired but in good spirits. She’ll be back to school Monday. I’ll be looking into next steps then. She’d love to see you.

  I send a smiley face. Then I find my burner and text Art.

  Dropping off homework at your house. I’ll leave it behind your garden hose.

  As soon as the message is sent, I crush the phone’s SIM card, bash it with a hammer a few times, and toss it in a dumpster. Then I dig out the paint can where I keep my stash: bottles and bottles of pills stuffed with cotton so they don’t make noise, along with a few bags of heroin.

  I shove it all into my pockets. It feels heavier than it actually is. The wind, warmer now that summer approaches, hisses through the branches of the pomegranate tree Ama planted near the shed.

  I know what you have, the leaves seem to whisper. I know what you’ve done.