Ahmed froze. Was someone calling his name? It was probably just a trick of hunger and longing.
But no, there it was—again!
“Ahmed!”
Ahmed ran back out from the memorial to find Max sprinting toward him over the gravestone path. At the sight of Max racing toward him with a loud whoop, he burst into a smile. He couldn’t help it. Deep down, he realized, he’d wanted to be found.
Max skidded to a stop in front of him. He was out of breath, panting.
“How did you—?” Ahmed asked.
“Searched different parks … But that’s not important…” Max grabbed his arm. “Your father! He’s alive.”
Ahmed stared at him. Was this even possible? No, something was lost in translation. He had to be misunderstanding what Max was saying.
“Did you hear me, Ahmed?”
“About my father—?”
“He’s alive!”
He shook his head. “This is … not possible.”
But even as he said this, Ahmed felt a pang of hope.
“Your friend Ibrahim Malaki,” Max panted. “He’s still in Brussels. Last month, he charged his old phone … He found messages from your dad. The coast guard rescued him. He was in the hospital in Turkey for weeks, unconscious. By the time he was able to call, the smuggler must have had your phone. He couldn’t reach you, so he left messages for Ibrahim.”
Max would never lie; Ibrahim would never lie. It had to be true. Baba was alive!
Ahmed’s legs crumpled and he sank onto the gravestone beneath him. Tears rolled down Ahmed’s cheeks and splattered against the gravestone.
“He is still in Turkey?”
He looked up, but Max had kneeled beside him.
“No, he’s in Europe. He was trying to find you. His last message said he was being arrested and taken to a detention center in Hungary.”
The sentence landed like a blow. Of all the places in Europe that his father could have ended up, this was the worst. Hungary was the least welcoming country on the refugee route; Ahmed still remembered the hot, crowded Keleti train station in Budapest and the Hungarian police—how they would lie to refugees about where they were taking them, or even beat them. “Do you know where?”
“Ibrahim told me the name. He said there was also a refugee rights group in Hungary that was trying to help him—”
Ahmed jumped to his feet.
“I must go to this center. Now.”
Max was up beside him, his hand on Ahmed’s arm. “You can’t just go to Hungary. The whole of Europe is on alert.”
“But borders is still open?”
“I think so, but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be police at them now, checking documents.”
“I have Belgian ID.”
“A forged Belgian ID!”
Max was right. The Schengen Agreement kept borders open between European Union countries, but there would still be heightened security, especially in and out of Belgium. The trip would be incredibly dangerous. But so was the alternative.
“It is no longer safe for me here. Yesterday, after attack, Inspector Fontaine sees me leave school alone. He asks directrice questions.”
“Is that why you took off?”
Ahmed nodded. “I must go right now.”
Max crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t go—”
“Max—”
“Alone.”
“You want to go with me?” Ahmed asked, but he already knew the answer. It made him want to hug Max and tell him to forget about it at the same time.
“We’ll be less suspicious together. I have real papers and I can do the talking—”
What Max really meant was that having a white, European-looking schoolboy by his side would make Ahmed seem like less of a threat. Ahmed couldn’t argue with this, but Max would make the journey riskier in other ways.
“Boy like me, people not worry if he travels alone, but boy like you—”
“In America, maybe, but parents here allow kids to be more independent, especially in groups. My Scout overnight next month doesn’t even have adults going, just the leaders, who are, like, sixteen.” Max’s face brightened. “Hey! I know! We can dress in Scout uniforms, pretend we’re going on a trip—no one will suspect anything; everyone loves the Scoots!”
“But your family—they will worry. They will call police.”
Max took out his phone and began to type. A moment later, he held up the screen so Ahmed could see. “Look, Hungary is fourteen hours by train. We can catch a nine-twenty tomorrow morning to Frankfurt, that’s the first leg. I’ll pretend to go to school, and by the time anyone even starts to miss me, we’ll be halfway to Hungary.”
This was the same Max who had come up with a plan to sneak him into the School of Happiness—the same crazy, wonderful, naive, hopeful Max. But Ahmed shook his head. “No. I cannot ask this of you.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Max said. He sounded almost angry. “I owe you.”
“Owe me?”
“My whole life, I’ve felt so useless. Like I wasn’t good at anything. Like all I did was screw up. You made me feel”—Max looked down, his face flushed—“like I could help.”
Ahmed smiled. “Boy hero.”
“No,” Max said quietly. “Just a sidekick to one.”
Ahmed couldn’t speak, so he looked into the distance, the way the statue had, and concentrated on blinking back tears.
“Come on, Nabil Fawzi,” Max said with a grin. “You’ll stay with me tonight, in my room. The metro still isn’t running. I’ll tell my mom you need to sleep over.”
“But Fontaine—?” Ahmed managed to choke out.
“He won’t figure out where you are that fast, especially with everything else going on. Plus, he already came by once today. I doubt he’ll be back.”