“WHAT A RACKET THEY MAKE!” Stefan’s mother said.

They sat perched on the roof of their townhome. Her apron pockets were full of broken gingerbread that she hurled into the air.

Stefan laughed as seagulls swooped down to snatch the pieces out of the sky. “And so far inland!” he exclaimed.

“They come in whenever there’s a storm, dear.” His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’s getting cold. Come inside and we can have some cocoa.”

“Look how they catch the air,” Stefan said, pointing at the arc of a gull wing, cupped on a gust of wind.

“Yes, amazing,” his mother said. “A pity your father doesn’t make birds. What child wouldn’t want a toy that could fly?”

“I would,” Stefan agreed.

His mother was in the kitchen, pouring cocoa. “You would what, dear?”

“Like to make birds,” he said. “Like on the roof.”

She smiled her brilliant smile—the one that pulled smiles from all other lips—and handed him a tray with four mugs. “That’s a wonderful thought, Stefan. When you figure it out, I’d love to have a little gray dove.”

Hadn’t he made her one already? Stefan accepted the heavy tray. The warm, sweet steam of chocolate and milk curled about his face.

His mother patted his cheek. “Go, beautiful boy. Don’t keep your papa waiting.”

Through the window, he could see his father and two other men. “Look! It’s Cousin Christian,” Stefan said. “And . . . Samir.”

Their heads were together, discussing . . . something. He heard them say his name. Christian drew plans in the air. Stefan listened closely. He wanted to join them, but could not find the door.