Nowhere Boy: Chapters 1–6

The top of the inflatable rubber dinghy bobbed barely ten centimeters above the Aegean, several centimeters lower than when they had started.

Ahmed lurched forward to grab him, but it was too late. His father slid into the dark water like an eel. A moment later he reappeared, treading water.

A slight, wiry man took off his jacket, then his shirt.

He was just an engineering student from Homs whom the smugglers had chosen from among the refugees to pilot the boat.

This thankless duty had earned him an oblong orange buoy. He tossed it into the sea, then dove after it.

As he emptied bottles, Ahmed felt his fear ebb, replaced by pride that it was his father leading the swimmers.

The swimmers pulled the dinghy straight into the waves. It pitched and bucked, pulling the swimmers’ rope taut, but it stayed afloat.

They had just left the Grand Place, the enormous square in the center of Brussels where tourists gawked at the ornate gold-adorned buildings.

She’d told his parents he needed to work on study skills and focus, including on being less impulsive.

He hated the way everyone in Brussels walked around grim and silent, like they’d just been yelled at.

He’d been in Brussels all of seventy-two hours and he was already sick of it—the little cars; the clouds of cigarette smoke; the scrawny, overtrimmed trees that looked like amputees; the greasy snack shops selling fries and kebabs; the surly waiters who refused to do anything in a rush.

He just wanted a hamburger—not the weird raw beef the Belgians inexplicably called “filet Americain.”

The wooden crates repurposed as chairs and tables, the laundry drying on ropes strung between trees, the first-aid tent with its giant red cross, the piles of donated clothes—it all made for an unsettling contrast with the reflective glass office towers that surrounded the park.

The authorities could no longer justify a tent city in the center of the European Union’s capital.

The police might see not the face of a boy, but of a sullen young man, a possible terrorist.

He pictured them sending him back to Turkey—all those hard-earned kilometers in reverse, his father’s death in vain.

Max breathed deep and rubbed his clammy palms. In just seven hours, he told himself, his first day would be over. It was going to be fine.

He’d omitted this embarrassing detail when he’d Skyped with Kevin and Malik, but they had been too busy telling him about coding camp and the epic water-gun battle they’d had at Malik’s house to ask him much anyway.

Max started to write too, but the nib of his fountain pen only scratched dryly against the paper.

Some of the kids were pretty good and Max hoped they wouldn’t pass to him, but they seemed to hog the ball less than the kids back home did, and inevitably someone kicked it toward him.

He scrawled a note to Ibrahim, thanking him for honoring his promise and promising in turn to get in touch when he reached Calais.

An unshaven man with a prominent Adam’s apple turned around in the driver’s seat and waved him inside.

The garden was unkempt. Even in the pouring rain, he could see that green tendrils of ivy had swallowed the walls, and weeds snaked around the trunk of a small fruit tree.

The garden was unkempt. Even in the pouring rain, he could see that green tendrils of ivy had swallowed the walls, and weeds snaked around the trunk of a small fruit tree.

Ahmed caught his breath, pulled up his drenched sleeve and inspected the watch for damage. It was unscathed, but in the pale light of the moonlit clouds, he could see the scraped skin on his elbows where they’d hit the concrete.

Ahmed turned the key and opened the door. A dank smell drifted out of the darkness. He could hear water dripping inside.

At first, Ahmed thought he had discovered a crypt. The walls of the room were lined with deep cubicles.

There was the bathroom outside for water and waste, and even an alcove in the wall beneath the little window that was just big enough to hide in if someone came.

The cop stepped inside the foyer and took off his blue cap. He was balding, and the remaining hair was shorn close to his scalp.

“He wants to see if who your parents say is living here lives here,” she explained. “It is required to get your identity cards from the commune.”

Madame Pauline nodded vigorously. “Exactly!”

There was a commotion as Teddy Roosevelt careened out beneath the side table and flew in a panicked white blur into the hall.

There was a commotion as Teddy Roosevelt careened out beneath the side table and flew in a panicked white blur into the hall.

It was wild and overgrown: a tangle of ivy, roses and rhododendron bushes. Max liked it even better than the prim, old house.

Reluctantly, it seemed to Max, the police officer walked back toward the door.