‘That’s a perfect plan,’ agreed Mum when Uncle Ghazi rang her that night. Zafir finally got to talk to her. She sounded tired but okay. ‘I can’t wait to see you,’ she said. ‘But until I feel better it will make me happy to know you are safe.’

‘Uncle Ghazi has given me one of his phones so I can call you anytime,’ said Zafir.

‘What happened to your phone?’ she asked. ‘I got Fadhila to call you but she said she got a message saying it was switched off. I was worried.’

‘I … I lost it,’ said Zafir. Uncle Ghazi had said not to tell her yet what had happened to him. It was enough of a shock for her to hear about Tetah’s heart attack.

Zafir had agreed that the plan did seem a good one when they were talking about it on the phone, but the next day, when the reality of leaving Uncle Ghazi and heading off with strangers to a place he’d never been started to sink in, he wasn’t so sure.

It was just after salat el aser, afternoon prayer time, and Mr Al Hamra had rung Uncle Ghazi to say the minibus his brother was driving had arrived.

‘Please, can’t I stay here with you?’ Zafir begged.

‘It’s arranged now. You’ve got the papers to say you’re Zafir Al Hamra,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He picked up Zafir’s suitcase. ‘Wadi Khaled isn’t far away. It’s only an hour-and-a-half’s drive from here and it will only be for a couple of weeks. By the time your mum is out of hospital, inshala, this war might even be over.’

But it wasn’t just the thought of being with strangers. ‘What if something happens to you when I’m not here?’

‘Then it will be better for you that you’re not here,’ said Uncle Ghazi.

Zafir looked away. He could feel tears in his eyes and he didn’t want Uncle Ghazi to see them.

‘Truthfully, I don’t want you to go either,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But right now Homs is too dangerous. People have started fighting back and soldiers are being killed. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. What would I say to your mum and dad?’

Zafir shrugged but didn’t speak.

‘Just think, Zafir, when you’re in the country you can pick mulberries and figs straight from the trees. It’ll be like a summer outing, every day.’ Uncle Ghazi stood at the opened door. ‘Come on, Zaf. We have to go. I’ll say goodbye to Azzam Azzad for you.’

Zafir knew he had no choice but he stalled for another minute. ‘Maybe I’ll take my skateboard,’ he said picking it up.

‘Remember, when everything is back to normal I’ll buy a new one for you,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I promise.’

As they stepped out into the street from the laneway they saw a crowd around the minibus. Mr Al Hamra and his brother Abu Faisal looked like identical twins. They were busy pushing a clanking bundle of pots tied up in a blanket onto the roof. On the ground was a sewing machine wrapped in a thin mattress. An old woman in a long gown and a burqa was sitting cross-legged on a sajda, prayer rug, mumbling as she fingered her beads. Zafir guessed she was Mr Al Hamra and Abu Faisal’s mother, Um Omar. Mr Al Hamra’s wife and sister-in-law were tall compared to their husbands. Both were wearing gowns and scarves tied securely around their head, and both were carrying a wailing baby. Behind them was a line of children who all looked to be under seven years old.

‘Hey,’ said Uncle Ghazi, looking around at the scene. ‘I just had a thought. You can take photos of what it’s like at the farm and send them to me and I can add them to Facebook and the blog. This could be a good story, Zaf – residents of Homs forced to leave the war zone. You could be our citizen journalist out there.’

Zafir nodded. He liked Uncle Ghazi’s idea.

‘I’ll send you photos every day.’ Now he had a proper job to do he felt better about leaving Homs. ‘I won’t need the skateboard. It’s just going to take up room.’ He handed the board to Uncle Ghazi.

Mr Al Hamra came over to them. He was short and hunched over with a pale puffy face, thin hair and a closely trimmed beard and moustache.

‘Salaam aleiykum, sayidi, sir,’ Mr Al Hamra greeted them politely. ‘Come, come, you must get on the bus. But let’s firstly put your bags on the roof.’

‘No … I want to keep them with me,’ said Zafir. He held onto his schoolbag tightly. Inside was the slightly dented helmet that had saved his life, Rami’s solar cap and, wrapped safely inside both, the miracle red egg.

‘Wise fata, young man,’ said Mr Al Hamra. ‘It seems you have learned the lesson already that to trust people is like trusting water in a sieve.’ He laughed in a way that reminded Zafir of Abu Moussa and his jokes. He hoped the old taxi driver and his family were okay.

‘Only this, then,’ said Uncle Ghazi, handing over the suitcase of clothes.

‘Abu Faisal, here is our new nephew,’ Mr Al Hamra called up to his brother who was busy tying a tandoor oven to the racks on the roof.

‘Where is your sajda?’ Abu Faisal asked Zafir, as if amazed it wasn’t rolled up under his arm.

‘Er …’ Zafir wasn’t sure how to reply. He used to have one. Giddo had given it to him but it had stayed rolled up when they’d come to Homs. Without Giddo around, Zafir had never used it anymore. It was probably buried under the rubble at Tetah’s house.

‘The house was bombed. Most of Zafir’s things weren’t found,’ said Uncle Ghazi quickly.

‘But how can he make a clean place for praying without a sajda?’

‘I have some offcuts of suit material in the shop that can be used,’ said Mr Al Hamra. ‘It is not so important what a mat is made from but that it is clean and only used to pray on.’

As he hurried off Zafir realised he was going to have to get used to saying his prayers more regularly while he was staying with these people. All the same they seemed to be kind.

‘There is no charge,’ said Mr Al Hamra, smiling, when he came back with the sadja and Uncle Ghazi tried to pay for it. ‘Praying is free.’

‘We must leave now,’ said Abu Faisal. He tied one last knot in the bundle on the roof and leapt down. ‘It will be dark by the time we arrive.’ Everyone except for Zafir and the two men were already on the bus.

‘There is a seat for you, young sayidi, next to Um Omar and my nephew Faisal,’ said Mr Al Hamra, standing aside so Zafir could get on board.

‘Wait. I have to say goodbye to Uncle Ghazi.’

Zafir turned to his uncle. How could he say everything that he wanted to? From his earliest memory, his uncle had been there, teasing him, getting cross with him for being a pest, but always there for him. If only they were back in Dubai with Giddo and Siti. But that life was over now.

Uncle Ghazi grasped Zafir by the shoulders. They were almost eye to eye, and Zafir realised that now he was nearly as tall as his uncle. He could see Uncle Ghazi’s eyes were watery. So were his own, but Zafir couldn’t cry. Not in front of everyone.

‘It won’t be long,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks and we’ll go to Beirut.’ He pulled Zafir into a hug.

‘Giddo and Siti would be proud of what you’re doing,’ Zafir whispered into his uncle’s ear. As they pulled apart they grinned and fist bumped.

‘Ma’a salaama, God go with you, Zaf.’

‘Ma’a salaama, and with you,’ replied Zafir.

Zafir got on the minibus and squeezed into his seat. He was stuck between Um Omar, who smelled of rosewater and garlic, and Faisal, a small, fat boy who had his face inside a packet of crisps that he didn’t look as if he wanted to share with anyone.

Zafir found just enough space to shove his schoolbag under the seat.

‘Yallah, let us go with God,’ said Mr Al Hamra as he stepped on board and pulled the door closed.

‘Tawakkalna ala Allah, I place my absolute trust in God.’ Abu Faisal’s prayer was almost drowned out as the bus started up with a shake and a rattle.

‘Bismillah, in the name of Allah,’ mumbled Um Omar.

Zafir waved to Uncle Ghazi who raised his hand. He stood alone on the street.