That afternoon, Ahmed heard a faint knock followed by a rustle as a piece of paper slid beneath the cellar door. He scrambled over and opened up the note.
“Do not go out,” it read. In loopy script, it was signed, “Max.”
Someone had come to the house. Ahmed had heard the doorbell ring, an unfamiliar voice and footsteps overhead. It was a man’s voice, and once he had seemed close, perhaps near the basement stairs. Whoever it had been had frightened Max. But the man had gone, or at least Ahmed thought he had, because he’d heard the front door slam.
Ahmed obediently stayed in the cellar. He tried to keep himself busy by looking at the new books as he waited for Max.
It was almost midnight when Ahmed heard the gentle knock. He opened the door to find Max carrying the usual tote bag loaded with food, books and other supplies.
“What happen?” he asked.
Max handed him the bag, then closed the door behind him.
“A cop stopped by.”
Ahmed shook his head at the unfamiliar word. “Cop?”
“Police officer. Don’t freak out.”
Ahmed’s arms felt limp. He put down the tote. He didn’t know what “freak out” meant, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the way his stomach started to toss and turn, like he was still at sea.
“I don’t think he knows you’re here,” Max said.
Ahmed didn’t feel very reassured. “Don’t think?”
Max sat and patted the camping mat next to him. Ahmed sank down beside him. If a policeman was snooping around, he was no longer safe.
“He’s the same guy who came to check who we were so we could get our residency permits,” Max explained. “His grandfather used to own the house, so he’s kind of obsessed with it.”
“Great,” Ahmed muttered.
“Don’t worry, he’s mainly focused on the garden. He wants my parents to clean it up.”
“It needs cut,” Ahmed agreed glumly.
“He dropped by with the name of a gardener. I really don’t think he knows anything. But just in case he was still hanging around, I didn’t want you to go out.”
Max had done the right thing. But Ahmed still felt “freaked out.” It wasn’t good that the police officer had a special interest in the house. And if he’d played in it as a child, he probably knew about the cellar. He tried to calm himself: if the police officer had really suspected Ahmed was there, wouldn’t he have already checked?
“I stay inside,” Ahmed said.
“Maybe for a few days,” Max agreed. “It’s raining anyway.” Then he reached for Boy Heroes.
Ahmed sensed there was something else Max wasn’t telling him.
“Have they caught all terrorists at Paris?” he asked.
Max paged to the chapter they were on. “I don’t think so,” he said without looking up.
So that was it. There was a manhunt. The authorities were probably looking for them all over Europe, including Belgium.
“Want to read?” Max asked.
But as Ahmed tried to read about John Cook, a fourteen-year-old Union musician (he played the bugle, which Max explained was a kind of horn), his mind wandered. With a manhunt going on, he might have to stay inside for more than just a few days. This wasn’t terrible—he had blankets now, and books, plenty of food and company from Max. The orchids were looking better—a few had even grown a new leaf—but the days were growing shorter, and Ahmed knew that if they were to recover fully, they needed more light.
John Cook had just thrown down his bugle to carry a wounded officer to safety when Ahmed stopped reading and looked up at Max.
“The orchids not have enough light. Will you bring me lamp for them?”
“Like a desk lamp?”
Ahmed couldn’t help but laugh. “No, fool, grow lamp. Special lamp for flower. Like sun.”
Max grinned. “What am I, your personal shopper? All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do, Your Highness.”
“Not so high here in cellar.”
“It’s a turn of phrase. How do you know so much about orchids anyway?”
It wasn’t the first time Max had asked him about his life, but it was the first time Ahmed felt like answering.
“My grandfather, father of my mother, has flower store.”
“He’s alive?”
Ahmed looked down as he realized his error. “Had.”
Max didn’t say anything, and Ahmed knew he wanted him to continue. But telling the story of his family to another person, who could read his eyes and ask questions, was a lot different than telling a flower.
“Will they bloom again?”
Ahmed paused, then spoke truthfully.
“I don’t know.”