Just stories. Made-up memories. I don’t know anything about my parents. What were their hopes for me? What did they dream?

  Not this. My face gets hot. Maybe they’re watching from somewhere. Looking down and wondering what happened.

  I leave the past behind so I can listen to Salahudin. He tells the court how long he’s known me in that deep, sure voice that only now seems to fit his tall frame.

  “I have a statement I’d—I’d like to read. If that’s okay.”

  Salahudin swallows. His lawyer, Martin, raises his eyebrows.

  “Mr. Malik, we can get to that,” Martin says. “Let’s talk about the night in quest—”

  “I’d really like to read the statement.” Salahudin pulls out a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket. “It will save a lot of time. Everyone’s time.”

  Salahudin looks pointedly at the clock. It’s 4:15 p.m. Court is usually over by four. It’s been a long day.

  “Mr. Malik,” Judge Ortega says. “Answer the question your lawyer is asking.”

  “Please—will you just listen?” Salahudin pushes. His voice isn’t so steady now.

  Judge Ortega sighs. “Mr. Chan,” he says, “do you need a moment with your client?”

  “I started selling drugs a few weeks after my mother passed away.” Salahudin opens his paper and starts reading. “After—”

  “Objection,” Martin says. “Perhaps my client doesn’t realize—”

  Ortega shakes his head. “Now he’s got my interest. Let him make his statement, counsel,” he says. “Go on, Mr. Malik.”

  “After Ama died, I realized we were going to lose the motel she’d poured her whole life into. I felt awful. I didn’t save her from her illness. So I thought I could at least save the motel. That’s why I started selling drugs. But it was a bad reason. I should have accepted that sometimes in life you lose things. Parents. Places.” He stops. “Friends,” he says after a long pause. “The night I was arrested, I had all of my stash on me. None of that belonged to Noor Riaz. It all belonged to me.

  “I didn’t tell Noor I was selling drugs. She didn’t know I was selling drugs. I panicked because I knew if I was taken out of the car and searched, I’d be in trouble. I handed her whatever was in my pockets, and told her to shove it under her seat. Even then, she didn’t know what I was handing her. There’s no way she could tell. It wasn’t until—” He sighs. “Until the officers searched my car that she finally realized what had happened. What—what I did.”

  His hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at his paper. His hands tremble. I look down and find that mine do, too.

  “I chose to sell drugs,” he says. “That was my decision and my mistake. The night we were arrested, Noor Riaz made a mistake, too.” He glances at the jury. “It wasn’t selling drugs. Her mistake was trusting a friend she’d known since childhood. Her mistake was—was thinking that she knew me. Believing the best of me. Caring about me. She was wrong—she shouldn’t have trusted me. She shouldn’t have thought the best of me. But that’s not a mistake she should go to prison for.”

  He clears his throat loudly, almost angrily. “That’s it. That’s the statement. Thanks for—for listening.”

  The courtroom is quiet. Then, Martin, Mr. Mahoney, and Khadija are all talking at once, each one trying to speak over the others. Judge Ortega stares at Salahudin for a second. Almost surprised. Then he taps his gavel.

  “Counsel,” Ortega says. “My chambers.”

  Salahudin stays in the witness stand, unsure of what to do. He folds and unfolds his paper until the bailiff tells him he can sit. Without our lawyers between us, I could reach out if I wanted to. Touch him.

  But I’m too stunned. I’m angry at him, but also grateful. I don’t know what to think. What to feel. For the first time in weeks, I just want him to look at me. But he doesn’t.

  The chamber doors open. Martin’s face is pale. Mr. Mahoney looks grumpy. And Khadija—I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  “In light of Ms. Riaz’s testimony,” Judge Ortega says when he’s back on the bench, “as well as Mr. Malik’s statement, the DA has decided to drop the charges against Noor Riaz. Closing statements in the case of the People of the State of California versus Salahudin Malik will go on in the morning as planned. Adjourned.”

  He bangs his gavel and I stare at Khadija.

  “What does—does that mean?”

  She grabs me in a hug. That’s when I realize that she’s crying. Which confuses me, because if she’s crying, then this probably isn’t good.

  “What does it mean, Khadija?”

  “It means,” she says, “that you’re getting the hell out of Juniper and becoming a doctor, Noor Riaz.”

  She turns to Shafiq, and Salahudin and I lock eyes. He looks lost. Scared. I still don’t know what to think or say. So I let Auntie speak for me.

  “If we are lost, God is like water,” I whisper, “finding the unknowable path when we cannot.”

  Something flickers across his eyes. But I don’t have time to interpret it. Khadija is ushering me out of the room and into the hallway, and I look back at Salahudin just in time for the courtroom doors to swing shut.

  PART VI

  —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

  I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

  the art of losing’s not too hard to master

  though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

  —Elizabeth Bishop,

  “One Art”

  chapter 59

  Misbah

  February, then

  How quickly a body can betray you. It will carry you your whole life and suddenly—finished. It will carry your soul no longer.

  Did the soul grow too weary for the body? Did the body grow too weary for the soul? Was it a betrayal of organs and tissues, sinews and cells?

  Or was the betrayal that I did not care for my body the way I should have? That when I knew my body was screaming for aid, I ignored it, in service of what the soul wanted, which was the comfort of routine and familiarity.

  Who was the traitor, truly? The body? Or the soul?

  I was not in Pakistan for my baba’s death, or my mother’s. I never saw their graves. I regretted it, for how could I expect my son to read prayers at my grave and offer my soul comfort if I did not do the same for my parents?

  Where was Toufiq?

  These were matters he would understand. Where was he?

  I remembered my baba, then. Oh, Baba—I wish I could see your face once more. I am afraid, Baba.

  Where was my body?

  Where was my soul?

  “Auntie Misbah.”

  I opened my eyes to see my child, my girl. I needed to speak with her. I needed to tell her she deserved better than that villain she called Chachu.

  “Pani.” I asked for water so I could speak clearly. There was so much to say: That I loved her. That I should have done more for her. That I wanted to be a mother to her and a father. A grandfather and a grandmother. A sister. A brother. I wanted to be everything that she had lost, and I tried, but this body . . . This damn body.

  Noor said Salahudin was coming. My son. I wished I could tell her how he looked at me when he was born. I had never been closer to heaven than I was then, when the fabric between this world and the next was breached for one ineffable moment as I gazed into my child’s eyes for the first time.

  A strange sound filled my head, loud and unrelenting. Like a flood, like the rushing wings of a flock of starlings. They landed near the canals by my baba’s house sometimes.

  “Das pathar thoreingeh. Ake pathar katcha. Hiran ka bacha. Hiran gaya pani meh . . .”

  An old nursery rhyme.

  Ten rocks we shall break

  One rock soft and raw

  Child of a deer!

  She escaped into the water.

  Escape, Noor. Escape like the deer.

  “You don’t belong in Juniper, meri dhi,” I whispered.

  Her hands were strong, warm. I thought: She’ll make a good doctor one day, my girl will. But she has to get out, first. She has to know her worth.

  “Noor,” I whispered. I must tell her. I must. “Noor.”

  It meant “light,” her name. Had I ever told her that? How could I ever make up for all the things I should have done but would never do now?

  Baba. Help me. Baba, I am afraid.

  “Noor. Noor.” You are light. You are goodness. You are better than what you’ve been given. I should have done more for you. I should have done more. Oh, forgive me, my child. Here as I go finally to God. Please—please—please—

  “Forgive—”

  Me.

  chapter 60

  Sal

  July, now

  The day after the charges against Noor are dropped, I’m found guilty on all counts.

  The verdict is delivered in a perfunctory way. Neither the bailiff, the judge, nor any member of the jury looks at me.

  I knew it was coming. But my stomach drops out anyway. Part of me still hoped the jury would go easy on me.

  At least Noor is all right. Free. Away from Riaz and on her way to the life she should have.

  Judge Ortega sentences me right after the verdict, at Martin’s request. My lawyer switched gears as fast as I did, focused now on getting me as little time as possible.

  As the judge peers down at his laptop, I wonder if he’s saved any lives. I wonder if he’s taken any.

  Behind me, Abu coughs. Imam Shafiq is at his side.

  “I’ve been a judge for twenty-five years, Mr. Malik,” Judge Ortega says. “I’ve seen people lie to me, lie to themselves, lie to their counsel—all to get out of getting jail time. It’s rare—exceedingly rare—to witness such a clear admission of guilt as I heard from you. The fact that you did so even though denying the charges could have saved you from prison makes your case even more interesting. Altruism isn’t something I see often, in or out of the courtroom.”

  He steeples his hands, and his jaw hardens—just a touch. Enough to make me fear whatever’s coming.

  From the moment Noor and I got arrested, I felt simultaneously angry at Ama for dying and relieved that she couldn’t see any of this. Now I wish she was here, somewhere. Standing with Abu, or even back at the motel, waiting to hear word. Just to know that she was in the world, listening, hoping, praying for me—it would be a comfort in this moment in which I feel so alone, like a kid lost in the dark.

  “The charges against you are very serious,” Judge Ortega says. “The DA is recommending you serve the maximum sentence of seven years and eight months behind bars. However . . .” He considers. “I see great promise in you, Mr. Malik.”

  His words hit me like lightning. Ama said almost the exactly same thing to me months ago. Is it a coincidence? Maybe.

  Or maybe not.

  “With regard to the possession of fentanyl for sale, the court suspends your sentence,” Judge Ortega says. “With regard to the transportation and sale of fentanyl, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the possession of OxyContin for sale, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the transportation and sale of OxyContin, the court suspends your sentence. With regard to the possession of heroin for sale, the court suspends your sentence.”

  Martin is nodding beside me, thoughtful. Then he glances up.

  “With regard to the transportation and sale of heroin.” Judge Ortega looks at me now, gaze hard. “The court sentences you to a minimum of five years, three years served in state prison, and two in mandatory supervision.”

  Moments later, the judge has vacated the courtroom. Martin speaks.

  “—datory supervision is like probation. The three years will mean eighteen months served as long as you keep your head down. You’re going to be fine, Salahudin.”

  It could have been almost eight years, I tell myself. Eight damn years. And you’ll be out in as little as eighteen months.

  “Salahudin, are you okay? I know it seems like a long time.”

  Martin thinks I’m not speaking because I’m worried or scared or angry.

  But I’m none of those things. I’m thankful. And for the first time since the arrest, I’m at peace.

  chapter 61

  Noor

  September, now

  Los Angeles, California

  This is what I know about my roommate.

  Her name is Neelum.

  She is half Indian and half Korean.

  She brought a microwave.

  When I walk into my dorm room at UCLA, she’s there alone. Which is weird. Everyone else is here with their parents and an SUV-load of stuff. Comforters, bikes, skateboards. One guy helps his daughter carry in a set of turntables.

  I have one suitcase and a Target gift card that Khadija gave me at the Friarsfield bus station.

  “Just order everything you need,” she said. “You don’t need to be lugging ten tons of stuff with you on the bus.” She gave me the longest hug. I held her tight, trying to put all my gratitude into it. Thank you for talking to the dean for me. Thank you for helping me get work study. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for guiding me.

  The dorm room is split evenly. Each side has a raised bed, a desk, a closet, and a giant window. Neelum has claimed her side with a Crown of Fates poster and some tour posters. The National. Kendrick Lamar. BTS. Little May.

  As I walk in, she’s filling her desk shelf with books. I’ve seen many of them before. In Salahudin’s backpack, or on his desk at the Clouds’ Rest. His were library books, but the titles are the same. This Is How You Lose the Time War and War Girls. Legend and They Both Die at the End and The Beautiful.

  Neelum turns. Takes in my lone suitcase as I notice her R2-D2 socks. Eyes the electric tape around my Docs as I admire the blue in her short, dark hair.

  Her gaze lands on my shirt, black, with what looks like black paint dripping down it.

  “Jónsi?” she says. “The Go album is legendary.”

  I nod and switch off my music.

  “What are you listening to?” she asks almost hesitantly.

  “Um . . . it’s called ‘Broadripple Is Burning’ by—”

  “Margo & the Nuclear So and So’s,” she says, almost reverently. “Can I see?”

  I hold out my phone to her and she thumbs through my playlist, muttering to herself. “Aqualung . . . Hozier . . . 2Pac . . . Kendrick . . . Tori Amos . . .”

  Neelum glances up. “I realize we’ve just met and this might cement me in your brain as a loser for the rest of the year,” she says. “But I have two tickets to the Los Angeles Philharmonic performing all the music from Crown of Fates. Only it’s tonight and technically we have our dorm mixer thing—”

  “Is that a serious question?” I say. “Crown of Fates. All the way.”

  Neelum grabs me by the shoulders. “I have been waiting for you,” she says. “My whole life. Tell me you’re an English major.”

  I laugh. “Molecular bio.”

  “Do you read, at least?” She looks worried now, like she knew I was too good to be true and I’m about to sprout a second head that will yell science facts at her all day long.

  “Not really,” I say. “But . . .” I glance over her shoulder at her books. “Maybe I can start. Could you recommend something? Something that’s . . . an escape?”

  She scans her books and pulls out one with a black cover. “The Bird King,” she says. “By G. Willow Wilson. Total escape.”

  I read the inside flap of the book. It makes me think of Salahudin. I almost put it down. But I make myself smile at Neelum, who watches me anxiously.

  “Perfect,” I say, and nod at Neelum’s Crown of Fates poster. “So who’s gonna die in the last season, do you think?”

  chapter 62

  Sal

  October, now

  Friarsfield, California

  The casual way in which people touch is the worst part of prison. A guard grabbing me to direct me into a different line. A rando brushing past me to get to the cafeteria faster. A cellmate shoving me if he feels like I’m in the way.

  But the language I’ve always hated about myself has its uses. When two guys try to steal my mattress pad while my back is turned, I feel them behind me and clock one of them. The next day, when the guy I didn’t punch tries to ambush me in the bathroom, I turn on him before he can make a fist.

  I didn’t want to hit either of them. But after that, the other guys in the group cell leave me be. It’s unsettling how violence, too, is a language. One that Riaz spoke. One that I speak now.

  Abu makes sure there’s money in my commissary account, but I don’t call him and he doesn’t visit. I don’t want him to see the razor wire, the guard towers, the words CALIFORNIA DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS emblazoned on my shirt. Imam Shafiq said on the phone that Abu got an apartment and has been attending his meetings. But that it’s tough going. This place would be too much for him.

  Sometimes it’s too much for me. Control—choice—they’re a distant dream here. Occasionally, I find them in small rituals. Working out. Praying. Walking circles in the yard, missing the smell of the Mojave wind and the way the Sierra Nevada transformed every sunset into a poem.

  Mostly, I count the hours until I’ll get out.

  Three weeks into my sentence, I get a visitor. I assume it will be Imam Shafiq, as he’s the only one who sees me regularly. But when I get to the visiting booth, I’m so surprised to see the gray-haired woman waiting for me that it takes me a moment to place her.