It had been a relief when Max finally spotted Ahmed scrambling over the garden wall at dusk. But there had been no way to talk to him. His parents were awake in bed, and the TV whined on until late in the night.
To keep himself awake, Max played one of his fantasy games, even though it was meant for multiple players. There was a comforting order to the rules, to the numerical values assigned to qualities like strength, craft and magic; to the bloodless fights between wizards and trolls, clearly determined by a roll of the die. The images of the attack faded and his thoughts turned to how he might calm Ahmed. It seemed best not to mention Fontaine’s latest visit—at least right away.
A knock on the door interrupted Max’s thoughts. He scrambled to his feet, imagining Ahmed, but when he opened the door he found Claire. She closed the door carefully behind her, then turned to face him.
“Is he home?”
There was no need to ask who she was talking about.
“Yeah. He’s fine.”
“That’s great,” she said, but Max could detect a note of sarcasm.
“What?” he asked.
Claire took a deep breath.
“You can’t keep hiding him.”
Max was surprised by how hurt he felt, as if she’d personally insulted him. “Yes, I can.”
“Max, wake up. That police officer was here today looking for guys just like him. Guys who just blew up hundreds of people!”
Max stared straight at her. “Ahmed’s not a terrorist.”
“Look, I’m not saying he’s a terrorist…,” she said carefully.
“So what are you saying?”
She looked away and her eyes passed over the character cards and board strewn across the floor. “This isn’t some game, Max. Mom could have gotten on that metro today instead of walking to work. What if she were blown up?”
Max winced, but only because this dark thought had crossed his mind as well.
“Ahmed would never blow anyone up. I told you, he just wants to go to school. He has nothing to do with any of this.”
Claire gave her long hair a frustrated shake. “It doesn’t matter! Don’t you get it? You’re harboring an illegal refugee from Syria! And somehow you illegally enrolled him in school. The police came to our house today because there’s a state of emergency! You’re in over your head—”
“Don’t you dare tell!” Max hissed.
“He needs to go. This is a mess.”
Helping Ahmed was no longer “brilliant,” Max noticed; now it was just a mess. But Claire wasn’t so brilliant either. She seemed to have forgotten that he could make life difficult for her too.
“I’ll tell on you … how during the Paris attacks—”
She gave a bitter laugh. “You think that scares me? Sneaking out to go to a party is nothing compared to what you’ve been doing.”
She marched toward the door, but before she could yank it open, Max grabbed her hand.
“Please!” he pleaded. “I’ll tell. Just don’t make me do it now. It’s the worst possible time—”
Claire bristled. “Did you ever think it was the worst possible time for me to move to Brussels? But Mom and Dad thought it was a good idea because of you! They kept talking about giving you a fresh start. But I didn’t need a fresh start! They do everything for you!”
Max pushed down his anger. “Because they want me to be more like you!”
“Well, maybe you should be more like the rest of us and use your head! You’re putting us all in danger.”
“Ahmed is the one in danger, not us. Don’t let Fontaine scare you—”
“Max, this isn’t about being scared, it’s about being smart!”
He was tempted to shout that being smart wasn’t everything, that being kind counted for just as much, if not more. But he wasn’t going to change her mind by yelling at her or making her feel like a jerk.
“Look,” he said as calmly as he could, “I get it. I stress everyone out. I suck at everything. But I’ve kept Ahmed hidden. And I’ve kept him safe. I can’t do a lot, but I can do this. I’m good at this.”
He continued in an urgent whisper. “Please, Claire. I can’t turn him out now. Please, just give me a little more time.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t run off either. Finally, she sighed deeply.
“Fine.”
* * *
IT WAS NEARLY ONE in the morning when his parents’ light finally switched off. Even though he could barely stand to wait another second to talk to Ahmed, Max forced himself to stay in his room another twenty minutes till he was sure they were asleep. Then he tiptoed down, filling his tote bag with leftovers in the kitchen as he thought more about what he would say to Ahmed. He definitely wouldn’t tell him about Fontaine or Claire or that one of the terrorists was still on the loose. He would keep the conversation practical—the Belgian schools, surprisingly, planned to be open the next day, but since the metros, trams and buses weren’t running, not everyone would be able to come. This gave Ahmed a choice: if he didn’t feel comfortable going, he could just stay in the wine cellar without anyone getting suspicious.
Max knocked on the wine-cellar door.
“Ahmed,” he said softly.
No one answered.
Max’s breath came faster, his stomach tightened. But it was later than usual, he told himself, and Ahmed had probably just fallen asleep. He pushed open the door and stepped down into the cement anteroom.
“Ahmed!” he said again.
Silence.
Max rushed into the wine cellar, stopping short to avoid stepping on the camping mat. Only there was no camping mat. There were no blankets. There were no clothes. There were no books. There was no bag of food. There was no picture of the man who was a cage.
There was no Ahmed.
Max raced upstairs and threw on his jacket. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard a police siren wail outside. How would he find Ahmed at night, in the dark, with cops everywhere? He was more likely to be stopped himself and taken home.
He called Farah at the number for Ahmed’s “mom.” But the call just went to voicemail: This is Reem Nasser. Please leave a message.
He texted Oscar. But as long, silent minutes passed, Max realized that he, too, was probably asleep.
Ahmed couldn’t have just left without a word, without even a goodbye. Max stumbled down to the front room of the basement and pulled back the shade. The orchids were still there, the grow lamp resting unplugged beside them. Their roots spilled over the sides of their pots, as if they sensed Ahmed had left and were feeling around desperately for him.
Max’s eyes blurred with tears, but not before he noticed that the largest orchid was trying to say something. A scrap of paper was nestled among its roots. Max plucked it out and read:
Dear Max,
This one will bloom. Please take care of it.
Thank you for all.
Your friend,
Ahmed