“Everything. Hank leaving the gate unlocked, Nasha taking things.”
“At least he wields a good hammer. And we’ve made up for a few days of lost work since he’s gotten here. The kid …?” They both looked out to the picnic area.
Remi’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out, seeing a photo Amal had texted to her of a chicken that had hopped up on one of the picnic tables. The caption read Frum Nasha.
Remi looked up in time to see Nasha returning the phone to Amal. “Our newest girl seems to be assimilating quickly,” she said, showing the text and photo to Pete.
“What does Sam say about her staying? Assuming we can tame those sticky fingers of hers.”
“Not unless we get permission from her guardians or the government. I’m just worried that if she is orphaned, there’ll be too much red tape and she’ll somehow end up back on the streets.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I was hoping Selma might be able to find something. So far, nothing. There’s just not enough information out there about the girl. She tends to shut down when we try to question her.”
“What about Amal?” he said. She and Nasha were bent over the phone, for the moment the best of friends. But when Nasha glanced up and saw they were still watching her, she ran off. “They seem to have a good rapport with each other. Maybe she can break through and get a few more details on the girl’s background.”
Remi nodded. “Good idea.”
After picking up her lunch tray, Remi joined Amal at the picnic table. “You seem to be doing better.”
“Much better. Yesterday I thought about going back, but I looked at Nasha and I thought that if such a tiny girl can go through all that, surely I can.”
“Speaking of, where’d she go?”
“Out there.” Amal nodded to where several girls were jumping rope, chanting a poem about a robber coming in through the door. Nasha, her coveted navy pack strapped to her shoulders, stood on the sidelines, watching with a look of longing until she noticed Remi’s and Amal’s attention focused on her. She ran from the courtyard, just out of sight. “She’s a natural with an iPhone. But, then, most kids are.”
“I’m worried about her,” Remi said. “Hank saw her hiding something this morning just before he took off. A stash of missing nails. I’m hoping I didn’t make a mistake bringing her here, but I can’t see turning her over to protective services. I hate to think where she might end up.”
Amal looked over at Remi. “I would have done the same thing. Brought her here, I mean.”
“Do you think you can talk to her?” Remi asked. “We need to find out where she’s from if we hope to get permission to bring her in.”
“Me?” Amal’s glance strayed toward the girl. “I … I could try.”
Remi smiled to herself. When she’d last spoken to Renee on the phone, her friend had mentioned that Amal tended toward the shy side, keeping to herself and rarely interacting with strangers. In fact, that was one of the reasons Renee had been insistent about sending Amal on to the school without her. Even after the traumatic events on the road from Jalingo, the young woman certainly seemed to be coming into her own out there. For a few moments, they sat in peaceful silence, watching the younger girls jump rope. Eventually, Nasha peered around the corner at them.
Remi nodded toward her. “What do you suppose we’ll find in that backpack she never takes off? Or up in that tree she hides in?”
“I know exactly what you’d find. Food. And about anything else that isn’t nailed down, including some of those missing nails.” She smiled at the pun. “I’ve talked to her quite a bit. She’s a sweet girl, but that sort of behavior won’t stop until she starts to feel secure.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
Amal watched as the older girls now jumped and she smiled. “Originally, my major was in child psychology. And I might have continued in that direction except I had one of my seizures one afternoon and the person helping me brought me into the wrong lecture hall. It happened to be Dr. LaBelle, talking about the part of Tunisia where I grew up. The more I listened to her, the more I realized I was supposed to be there. It felt right. Like all those stories my grandmother had told me about the people who lived centuries ago were meant to—”
She stopped when one of the girls raced across the courtyard toward them, calling out, “Mrs. Fargo. Miss Amal.” She stopped in front of them, out of breath, pointing toward the mess hall. “Come quick. I think Mr. Hank is dying.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If you give bad food to your stomach, it drums for you to dance.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
Sam lifted the final roll of tarpaper over his shoulder and was about to climb up the ladder when Remi and Amal ran past him toward the mess hall. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Hank,” Remi called out.
Which didn’t tell him much. He lowered the heavy roll to the ground, then followed them into the cafeteria. Hank was leaning over a garbage can, heaving. A half-dozen girls stood on the other side of the room, their hands over their mouths, looking as though they were seconds from getting sick themselves. The acrid scent hit Sam the moment he walked in.