There were only two people who ever called me.
I leaped out of bed, pulled my underwear and a shirt on, and went to my desk.
Sure enough, Sohrab’s avatar—a picture of the two of us, the same one I had framed on the wall next to my bed—was bouncing up and down.
I dropped into my chair and hit accept.
There was that weird moment of feedback, and my screen went white for a second. And then there he was, squinty smile and all.
“Hello, Darioush!”
“Hey Sohrab,” I said.
I almost wanted to cry.
Almost.
I was so happy to see him, I thought my cheeks might lock into their smile and I would have to live the rest of my life with lockjaw.
I would have been okay with that.
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you before we left.”
“Left? For where?”
Sohrab leaned back, and for the first time I noticed he wasn’t in his room. The walls were white and blank.
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m in Hakkâri, Darioush. Turkey.”
“What?”
“Maman and I left. We are going to try and get asylum.”
“Asylum?”
My head spun.
“You’re becoming refugees?”
“Yeah. Lots of Bahá’ís do it.”
“Oh my god,” I said.
My best friend was a refugee.
“I was so worried about you. I thought something bad had happened.”
Did this count as something bad happening?
What did this mean for Sohrab? For his mom?
“Last time we talked you told me you thought you might be depressed. And then you were just gone. And no one would tell me anything. I thought...”
Sohrab’s face fell.
