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seats that usually circle the table where we eat. Mother holds court from the one and only chair in our apartment that doesn’t fold up for storage.
    This is no social call, I see immediately. There’s tension in the air, and everyone except my mother seems edgy and cheerless. She alone looks poised and controlled—she is a woman whose face gives away nothing. She is also accustomed to hosting cheerless gatherings—a souvenir from her old life. She and my father used to plot out her role in advance of important meetings—where to sit, what to say, who to charm and who to snub. She was very good at this.
    Even so, she looks relieved to see me. “Laila, there you are. You’re late. There’s someone here I want you to meet.”Her voice is artificially merry, and I wonder if the others in the room can hear her nervousness, even if they can’t see it. Probably not. She hides it well. “Laila, this is Amir. He goes to your school!” She says this as if it were an incredible coincidence worthy of exclamation.
    Amir does not move from his chair. He just sits there, still as a statue. Only his eyes give any hint that he has heard my mother’s introduction.
    His eyes are full of hate.
    It’s hard to describe what hate looks like, but so easy to spot it. To feel its heat. His eyes are narrowed and locked onto my own—the trajectory of his hatred unmistakable.
    I reflexively take a step backward and nearly stumble over Bastien’s new backpack, which is lying on the floor. I catch myself just in time to keep from falling, but I still feel off balance.
    I don’t recognize Amir or any of the other men, but I do recognize their features. They have the burnt-almond eyes, deep olive skin, and high cheekbones of the northwest region of my country. The Trouble Spot, my father used to call it. What little I know about the region, or its people, comes from overheard bits of hushed conversations and brief mentions in my library readings. What little I know all points to these people being enemies. Of my father, at least, which I think means of the rest of my family as well.
    And yet my mother now welcomes them into her home.
    She pauses a moment, giving Amir a second chance to respond. When he doesn’t, she pushes harder. “Laila, won’t you please ask Amir to help you in the kitchen? There’s a tray of food ready, but it’s quite heavy.”
    I don’t often disobey my mother, but this time I do. I take my cue from Amir and remain silent. One of the men snickers, but everyone else is quiet. I feel the weight of their collective scorn—it’s not just coming from Amir—and I am nearly overcome with the need to flee.
    “Bastien!” I call out. My voice is too loud in the quiet, tense room. “Bastien, are you in there?” I know that he must be. His backpack on the floor and the closed bedroom door are proof. “Come on, I’ll take you to the playground.”
    Now my mother is glaring at me too.
    Fortunately, Bastien bursts out of the door almost immediately. He must have been pressing his ear against it, listening. I grab his hand, even though I know he hates it when I do that, and pull him out of the apartment.
    “What are they doing here?” I hiss as soon as we’re outside. “What do they want?”
    Bastien shrugs and then points to someone on the far side of the playground. “
He
told Mother to invite them.”
    “He” is the man from the other day. The one with the gift basket.
    “Go play,” I command Bastien, and he runs to the basketball court to watch the older boys practicing jump shots.
    The man is leaning against the building, smoking, but he’s doing it in a way that makes it obvious he’s not a smoker. He’s holding the cigarette strangely, like a pencil, and he never lifts it to his mouth to inhale. It burns away, forgotten between his fingers. He’s using it as a prop—a reason to linger, I think.
    “Hello, Laila.” He does not seem surprised to see me.
    “I don’t know your name,” I