He was crying too.
“It’s my dad.” Sohrab hovered in the doorway, radiating fury. His jaw clenched and unclenched. “He’s dead.”
I wished I could time travel.
I wished I could unravel everything and make it not true.
“Amou.” Sohrab said something in Farsi to his uncle, who looked like his knees were about to buckle. He used that same knife-sharp voice he used on me.
Agha Rezaei shook his head and went back into the living room.
“What do you want, Darioush?”
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked. That lump was still there. “What happened?”
Sohrab’s face burned like a brand-new star. I could almost hear him grinding his teeth.
“They say he was stabbed. In prison.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Oh my God.”
Sohrab’s eyes drilled into me. He jerked his chin at the countertop. “What is that?”
I swallowed and picked up the box.
“This—I got it. For you.”
Sohrab stared at me like I was speaking Klingon.
“What is it?”
“Shoes. Cleats. For football.”
“You came here to give me shoes?”
“Um.” The lump had turned into sand. I was getting squeakier by the second. “Yeah. For our game today.”
Sohrab’s eyes flashed. He smacked the shoebox out of my hands and then shoved me.
He didn’t push me hard, but I stumbled back, because I wasn’t expecting it.
I wasn’t expecting the look in his eyes.
“Get out. Go away. Leave!”
“But—”
Sohrab cut me off.
“You are so selfish. My father is dead and you come over to play football?”
Sohrab kicked the box of cleats across the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re always sorry. God.”
My heart felt like a warp core about to lose magnetic containment and breach.
