Free hidden by Tomas Mournian

celebrate. We won! But that’s not how they saw it. They read those words, looked at me and saw their worse nightmare come true.”
    I look at Marci. Or, I should say, in Marci’s direction. Right now, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Even a sympathetic eye. My mouth wobbles, my face quivers. Tears. I hope I’ve said enough. I can’t go on. I can’t see her face. Even so. I can tell. We’re not going anywhere. Not until I finish this.
    “That night, I couldn’t sleep. I knew, if I did, I might not wake up.”
    “What do you mean, ‘Not wake up’?”
    “Die. Might not wake up because I’d be dead.”
    “Killed?”
    “Yes.”

Chapter 16
    “T he next morning, I found a stack of presents at the bottom of my bed. I forgot it was my birthday. Fourteen! Two years and I could drive. I picked up the first present I saw and unwrapped it. Orange tennies from my grandmother. I put them on, left my room and walked into the house. It was empty. In the vestibule—”
    “That church thing?” she asks.
    I’m surprised she didn’t ask, “That mosque thing?” I bite my tongue, don’t say, “I didn’t grow up in the projects.”
    “Um, no. It’s a hallway thing. To the front door. The mail slot opened. I picked up the envelopes. I never looked at the mail. But for some reason, that day I did. I saw … my name? Yes. The envelope was nothing special. Plain, white, business sized. I turned it over: no return address. I went to my bedroom. I needed to open it before the StepMonster walked in and found me.
    “I shut the door. Ripped it. There was a hundred dollar bill folded up inside a piece of blank stationery. The top was embossed with dark blue letters—M.G.—outlined in gold. M? Mary’s my birth mother’s name.”
    “She sent it.”
    “Yes,” I say. “She must have known. Been counting the days. Known I’d need money. She was right, coz—”
    “Was there anything else?”
    I shake my head, No. I leave out the picture paper-clipped to the bill. Maybe I’m worried she’ll tell me to hand over the snapshot. I could see her taking it and burning it.
    I continue, “I touched the bill and thought, ‘I should run away.’ But as much as I was afraid of living there, I had school. I went outside. My bike was trashed. The wheels were removed. My father had done it. They must have suspected I’d try to escape. Maybe they felt it. How I was free. Because, after exposing my secret? What else could they do? Fine, I thought, I’ll climb on my bike, ride away and never look back. I’ll disappear into the land of missing children.
    “I remembered another bike. An old one without gears. I lifted the garage door. It was shoved in between my father’s lathe and band saw. The garage smelled of wood shavings. As I backed the bike out, I remembered how we spent every Saturday morning together last year. He was into woodworking. We made toy planes and cars. I was still a little boy. Everything was simple and he loved me and I loved him. That, actually …”
    I look away. Wobbly faced. I’m about to cry. I don’t wanna cry. That moment, of all the horrible moments—the ones before and after—was the worst. If not the worst, in the top ten. A You’re-Not-Going-Back moment. I take a breath, continue.
    “I rolled the garage door. It was half closed when … I saw yellow. The color was another painful reminded. The yellow something I saw was our tandem bike.
Our
bike. Father and son.
    “I stood there, peering into the dark garage, and remembered last summer. Midnight. He woke me. ‘Ahmed! Get up! We’re leaving.’
    “I took my time. I thought we were moving—again. We moved a lot. I was too tired to ask, ‘What’s the rush? Why are we moving in the middle of the night?’ I dressed and met him outside. I felt drunk. Or, how I imagined being drunk. Groggy, I guess. I’ve never been drunk. When I saw him standing next to the two seater, I thought I was dreaming. He looked so …
proud.
He had this smile on