Free With Every Letter by Sarah Sundin

long string of Algerian Arabic, and gesturing to the jewelry.
    Tom racked his brain for the word for yes. “Naam.”
    “Naam? Mleh. Mleh.” He smiled and stroked his curly black beard. More Arabic, maybe some French mixed in.
    “Larry?” Tom said. “Need some help bargaining.”
    “How much you willing to pay? I’ll start lower and work my way up.”
    Tom paused. Fifty francs to the dollar. “Hundred fifty each.”
    Larry spoke with the trader in French. He turned back to Tom, eyes big. “He only wants fifty.”
    “Wow.” Tom pulled out some of the large French money. Seemed like stealing, but the trader grinned as if he were the thief.
    Larry bought a necklace with red stones for his mother and a similar one in green for his sister.
    At the next stall, the merchant held a bowl under their noses. “Couscous? Couscous?”
    Tom stared into the bowl—little beady things, kind of likeMalt-O-Meal, with chunks of meat and vegetables on top. “Larry, any idea what couscous means?”
    “Looks like a grain, but tastes like noodles. They cook it with gravy and lamb and vegetables.” Larry waved the booklet in front of Tom. “You ought to read this thing.”
    “The same booklet that says, ‘Little rainfall is experienced on the coast’?” Tom pointed to the bowl. “Want to try couscous?”
    The merchant closed his eyes, smiled, and rubbed his stomach. “Mleh. Mleh.”
    “ Mleh means good ,” Larry said in a slow, high voice as if talking to a small child. “And yeah, I’d love something with flavor. I don’t know how you white boys eat that bland stuff you call food every day. Must be why you’re so pasty.”
    “Careful. You’ll end up round eyed and pasty yourself.”
    Larry let out a low growl. “Make my life a lot easier.”
    “Nah. That’s the coward’s way out.” That’s what Mom told him every time he grumbled about changing his name. Cowardly and deceptive. It would be a lie, and lies were always exposed by the light. The truth might be difficult, painful, and alienating, but how could he lie every time he wrote his name?
    The merchant seated them at a table that backed up to a low whitewashed wall, set bowls of couscous before them, and poured cups of minty-smelling green tea.
    Tom dipped his spoon into the bowl. “Here goes.” Strange spices hit his tongue, like nothing he’d ever tasted before. Not hot-spicy, just strange.
    Larry mumbled in contentment. “Cumin, coriander, garlic, mint. There’s more to seasoning than salt and pepper.”
    “Maybe one new seasoning at a time.” Tom swallowed. This would take some getting used to. He scooped another spoonful.
    Something brushed his leg.

    He startled, and a chunk of meat dropped to the ground.
    A little dog darted out and grabbed it.
    Tom laughed. As a boy, he’d always had a dog. He picked out a chunk of meat—lamb wasn’t his favorite anyway—and held it out, clucking his tongue.
    The dog’s pointed ears pricked up. His brown eyes honed in on Tom and sized him up with an intelligent look.
    “Come here, little guy. You hungry?”
    “Don’t encourage him, Gill.”
    “He looks hungry. Come here, boy.” Every one of the dog’s ribs showed under his short-haired coat. Beautiful coloring—golden brown with white paws and chest. His tail curled in a complete circle, the underside white like a deer’s.
    He took a step toward Tom, then another, and snatched up the meat.
    A shout rang out. The merchant dashed from the stall, waved his arms at the dog, and kicked at him. The dog ran off with impressive speed.
    Tom sighed. Dogs listened and understood and didn’t care about your name.
    “You like dogs, huh?” Larry said. “Never had one.”
    “Never? They’re the best. I had a beagle named Rufus when I was little. Best friend ever.” Tom shoveled couscous into his mouth. Rufus had absorbed buckets of tears when his father was arrested, tried, and executed. He had to stay in California with an uncle when Tom and his mother