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She picked up her phone and booked a flight.

The screen flickered to life with the shaky, vertical framing of a phone camera. A beach at sunset—the coast of Alexandria, she realized with a jolt. The audio was a wash of wind and distant waves. Then a voice, young and laughing. fylm Down 2019 mtrjm awn layn kaml

Mira clicked play.

The camera swung around to reveal a boy—tall, bony-shouldered, with a grin that split his face like a dare. Youssef. He was squinting into the low sun, cigarette between his fingers. He said something in Arabic, too fast for Mira to catch, and then in English: “Film it properly. Don’t cut my head off.” She picked up her phone and booked a flight

“You think I’m running away,” he said. Not a question. The audio was a wash of wind and distant waves

The card had turned up in a box of her late father’s things, mixed in with faded receipts and a broken watch. She almost threw it away. But something about the lowercase sprawl—half Arabic transliteration, half clumsy English—stopped her. She plugged it into her laptop.

“Say something, Youssef.”