Ahmed knew they were playing a game like the ones he used to play with Nouri. “This bed is a spaceship,” she’d say, after they’d all started sleeping together, “and we are space travelers going to a planet far, far away.”
Jasmine would get annoyed—she liked to sleep in—but Ahmed would play along. He knew he was too old for make-believe, but he’d found himself swept up in their adventures—the bed flying around the rings of Jupiter, racing away from a black hole or an exploding star.
Since Nouri had died, Ahmed had kept his feet firmly on the ground. There were no flights of fancy—just flights across countries and cities, seas and highways, fields and mountains. But Max’s crazy scheme awakened that old part of him. Back in the cellar, he studied Max’s ID as if he were an expert forger. Max sat beside him, peering eagerly over his shoulder.
“It doesn’t seem that hard, does it?”
The ID was surprisingly primitive, without any watermark or chip. But forging it wasn’t entirely without challenge. “Paper needs match, letters need match, and very important, this—”
Ahmed pointed to a circular stamp over Max’s photo.
Max nodded. “The official commune stamp. There must be a way to fake it, though.”
It was a ridiculous game, of course. Millions of people were trying to forge their way out of the world’s war zones and wastelands, desperate for the piece of paper that would give them a future. If these documents were so easy to fake, the refugee camps and detention centers would be empty, not jammed with asylum seekers. But like in his games with Nouri, Ahmed decided to pretend anything was possible—Jupiter, the outer reaches of the galaxy, even school with Max in Belgium.
“You have computer?”
“I don’t think the Internet works in the basement, but my iPad’s charging in the living room—”
Ahmed stood up. “What time you have?”
“Five-ten.”
Ahmed knew he and Max were thinking the same thing: twenty minutes till Claire’s bus. They raced upstairs, breathless. The living room was already dark. Max unplugged the iPad and they plopped down beside each other on the couch. Max flipped back the cover, and the screen glowed to life.
“Google it,” Ahmed ordered. “What is this word again? For—”
“Forge,” Max said, typing fast. “Looks like you can carve the seal into a half-cooked potato.”
Ahmed laughed.
“Seems a little crazy, huh? This one says wax.”
“Like from candle?”
“Exactly.” Max hopped off the couch. “We’ve got to have candles.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned, holding out a handful of birthday candles, a baking tray, a box of matches and a tiny hooked utensil.
“What is it?” Ahmed asked.
“A lobster fork,” Max explained. “It’ll be perfect for carving the wax.”
Ahmed grinned. “You think like master forge.”
“Forger,” Max corrected. “So here’s the plan. I’ll work on getting the paper and matching the font and all that. You’ll work on making the stamp and getting a photo of yourself. There’s a booth that takes ID-sized ones in the metro station. Saturday afternoon, my parents are taking us to Aachen, Germany, for the Christmas Market. That’ll give you the perfect chance to sneak out. Just keep an eye out for any police officers.”
Max narrowed his eyes in a critical way. “You should probably get a haircut too.”
Ahmed instinctively touched his shaggy hair.
“You serious?”
Max grinned. “It kind of has a crazy terrorist look.”
Normally, Ahmed would have kidded back. But he couldn’t.
“Not hair, Max. School.”
“Of course, I’m serious.”
It was time to stop dreaming, to end such childish games. After all, Nouri was dead; she had never made it out of Aleppo, never mind to Jupiter. “But—but it not possible.”
“Why not?”
Because he was an illegal Syrian refugee squatting in a basement while the police combed the city for Muslim terrorists. That was the obvious answer. But it seemed cruel to say it out loud, like telling Nouri that they weren’t on a spaceship, but in a war zone.
“Even if we forge this ID, how do I just go to school? I must need parent.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What you mean?”
Max smiled craftily. “I was thinking about this. It’s really just a voice we need. My parents enrolled me over the phone and mailed the paperwork in.”
“School would not wonder if no parent bring me?”
“No one pays any attention in the morning; parents aren’t even supposed to enter the courtyard right now. And in the afternoon, as long as your parent signs a permission form, you’re allowed to walk home alone.”
“Max, you are kind to think of this plan, but it is too much danger.”
“Look,” Max added. “I’m only here for this school year, then we’re going back to Washington. But right now, I can be there with you. Let me help you while I can.”
Ahmed’s stomach dropped. How much longer could it be until the end of the school year—six months, seven at most? Then Max would leave and he would have to head to Calais, to the Jungle, by himself, the odds of making it to England stacked against him.
Ahmed thought of the orchids, lined up downstairs in a school-like row. He didn’t talk to them as much as he had before Max was there. They were just plants, not human classmates. He pictured the School of Happiness in his mind. He could almost smell the chalk dust and notebooks, could almost see the head of the kid at the desk in front of him, could almost hear the teacher call his name. He imagined the alternative, waiting in the cellar for Max to come home from school. The long winter stretched ahead of him; the dank walls pressed in. Even in Calais, it would be useful to know a little French. He took a deep breath and looked back over at Max.
“But who is this person who play parent? I need trust him not to tell.”
“Not him,” Max said simply. “Her.”
But before Ahmed could ask who Max had in mind, they heard the click of a lock. Ahmed bolted off the couch and raced down the basement stairs just as the front door opened.
“Hi, Claire, what’s up?” he heard Max say in a loud voice.
Ahmed froze midway down the stairs. He heard a bag hit the floor, then footsteps approaching.
“Why are you shouting?”
“Madame Pauline isn’t here,” Max said. “Metro strike. So I’m home alone.”
“Shouting to yourself?”
Max let out a whoop that allowed Ahmed to tiptoe down a few more steps. “Why not? I found mom’s secret stash of soda in the kitchen. Want some?”
“Sure,” Claire said. “You’re kind of a freak sometimes. Were you hanging out in the basement?”
“No,” Max said innocently.
“Then why are you standing there with the door open? And why is your face all red? Were you playing some fantasy game down there?”
“I had to pee.”
There was a loud slam as Max shut the door. Ahmed took the opportunity to scramble down the remaining steps. But he didn’t notice the cat till he tripped over him. Teddy hissed and Ahmed lost his balance, hitting the tiled floor. Before he could get back up, the basement door opened and the cat raced up the stairs in a state of terror.
“What’s going on down there?” Claire said.
Ahmed didn’t move. His heart thudded violently.
But then Claire’s voice softened. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, clearly talking to the cat. “Silly Teddy.”
“Got a Coke for you,” Max called from the kitchen with barely disguised urgency. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” she said.
But Ahmed didn’t hear any movement above. He held his breath.
“Claire?!” Max shouted.
At last, her footsteps receded. Ahmed let out his breath with a whoosh.