For the last three days, since Uncle Ghazi had told him the truth, Zafir had hardly done anything but lie on the mattress and think. At least it gave his ribs a chance to heal. Uncle Ghazi and Azzad Azzam came and went but he was never left in the apartment alone. And Azzam Azzad always locked his computer away when he went out now.

As Zafir lay on the mattress trying to find a comfortable position he tried to work out what he should do. Maybe he should make Uncle Ghazi take him to Damascus so they could visit Pops. Or should they go to Beirut and find the hospital Mum was in? And where was Tetah? Was she okay? At least Ustaaz Farook was with her. And if they left Homs, then what about Uncle Ghazi’s work? Zafir could see now that it was more important than ever. Homs was being called the ‘Revolution City’. Uncle Ghazi had to be here so he could let the world know what was going on.

Zafir’s thoughts flew around and around, trapped inside his head like small birds in a cage.

‘The news is getting worse,’ Azzam Azzad said, speaking to no one in particular as he sat at his desk. ‘The army has control of the city now. Ya Allah, it’s taken them less than a week.’

‘They’re making sure of it too,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘With those shilkas patrolling the streets and randomly shooting at shops and houses it’s impossible for anyone to go about their normal business here.’

Zafir had heard the roaring engines of the trucks with the machine gun on the back that Uncle Ghazi called shilkas and he could often hear the ratatat of their rapid fire in the distance. Especially at night. As the days went by, more names were added to the martyr list on the wall. One was the name of a soldier who had been executed for refusing to shoot at civilians. Fadhila rang Uncle Ghazi to say that Mum’s fever hadn’t abated and the doctor was worried. There was no news about Pops or Tetah. Was that good? Or bad?

Zafir’s thoughts rose up flapping and whirling. Azzam Azzad had put on some music. It was Fairouz, a Lebanese singer Mum liked to listen to.

Maybe that was a sign they should go to Beirut?

Zafir listened to the words of the song. It was a soppy one about seeing the first wirwar, bee-eater bird, that announced the arrival of spring and sent greetings from loved ones.

If only.

A loud rumbling sound suddenly started competing with the music.

‘Get down!’ yelled Uncle Ghazi. Azzam Azzad dropped and hid under the desk but Uncle Ghazi ran to the window with his camera. He tweaked back the curtain and began taking photos of what was happening in the street below.

Zafir wanted to scream at him to get down too, but his mouth was dry and he realised he was shaking. He put his hands over his head but he couldn’t block out the noise of the rapid gunfire. It drowned out the music and ratatatted so fast he couldn’t count the number of shots.

It seemed to take forever for the rumbling and shooting sounds to move further away, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute because the song about the wirwar was still playing. Fairouz’s voice rose as she wailed out the last few lines. There was a moment of silence as the song ended, then another began about the moon being a neighbour.

‘Any damage?’ asked Azzam Azzad. He crawled out from under the desk and turned down the music.

‘Only a few chips off the balcony,’ said Uncle Ghazi, peering out.

‘You know,’ said Azzam Azzad, pulling a comb out of his back pocket and running it through his greasy hair, ‘I think we should leave the windows open because I’ve heard that the compressed air of an explosion can force the glass out of its frame and make it shatter. It’d be a good precaution to take, because I’d say things are going to get a lot worse here.’

Zafir realised he couldn’t stop shaking. He put his knees up to his chest and put his arms around them, interlocking his fingers and squeezing his body as tightly as he could, not caring about the pain, but the shuddering went on.

‘Zafir? Are you okay?’ Uncle Ghazi knelt in front of him and tried to unlock his fingers.

‘It’s shock,’ said Azzam Azzad, the instant expert on everything. ‘Keep him warm.’

Uncle Ghazi draped a blanket around Zafir’s shoulders. ‘I’m going to have to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘You’re only thirteen years old. You shouldn’t have to go through all this. Not after everything that’s happened.’

‘It would be for the best,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘It’s crazy having a kid here. If we get caught no one will care what age he is. He’ll be thrown in prison too. How long do you think a kid like that would last?’

‘I know … I know. But where will he go? He’s got no papers, no passport, nothing official except a school identity card. There are military checkpoints everywhere. Oh God. Somehow I’ll have to get him out of here.’

‘You can’t go to Damascus,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘You’ve been warned they’re rounding up activists. They’ll put you back in prison as soon as they spot you.’

The blanket was thin and hardly warmed Zafir and the conversation wasn’t helping either. Zafir felt his teeth begin to chatter. He shut his mouth firmly to stop it and started to rock backwards and forwards. All he wanted was to be left alone. He tried to shut out their voices.

‘He’ll need papers even to get to Damascus and there’s nowhere for him to stay anyhow,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Gulnaz’s family have got her out of the country. Nadia’s friend Rasha might help, but her husband wasn’t sympathetic and Nadia had been finding it uncomfortable there. Father Papadopoulos is staying in the bishop’s house. I can’t ask him to take on Zafir as well. And we still don’t have any news of his grandmother. If only I had the phone number for her neighbour, the old gentleman who took her away. I’ve tried to find out but all the neighbours have vanished since the bombing.’

‘What about schoolfriends?’ suggested Azzam Azzad.

Although they were discussing his future Zafir felt detached, as if they were talking about someone else.

‘Nadia said Zafir only had one friend at school and he’s gone away. I’ve been trying to think if there’s anyone else since I brought him back here but there’s just no one.’

‘Maybe there is someone,’ said Azzam Azzad, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘A whole family, actually. I was speaking to Mr Al Hamra, the tailor who’s got the shop below. He said he and his brother are planning to take their families into Wadi Khaled, just over the border in Lebanon. Their brother-in-law has a farm in the valley. They’re planning to leave tomorrow and stay there until it’s all over. The kid could go with them – if you can pay his way.’

‘But what about a passport?’ asked Uncle Ghazi.

‘You said he’s got an ID card so I presume that’s got a photo on it. It’s not hard to forge an official paper that he can travel with. That, and a bit of money, will get him across the border without a problem. He’d be safer out of Syria and on a farm until things settle down here and he can come back.’

‘But I can’t just send my nephew off with strangers. What if they’re stopped and his false papers are discovered?’

‘What if he’s caught here with us?’

At that moment Uncle Ghazi’s phone beeped and he checked it. ‘Hey!’ He looked to Zafir. ‘It’s Fadhila and there’s some good news at last. Your mum is out of danger. She’ll have to be in hospital for a few more weeks and then … well, who knows, but at least she’s okay. What do you say to that, Zaf?’

Uncle Ghazi turned to Zafir.

Zafir stopped rocking, opened his mouth and found he could speak again. ‘Mum wants to live on a farm,’ he said, remembering her dream. ‘When she gets out of hospital she could go there too. She could even have a donkey like she’s always wanted.’

Uncle Ghazi nodded at Azzam Azzad. ‘You’re right. The farm will be safer than here,’ he said. ‘There’ll be goats and grapevines, not bombs and bullets. Let’s go and see Mr Al Hamra.’