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โMahmoud stood in a wet parking lot with his family, a light drizzle making everything slick and damp. Down past a pebbly brown beach, the Mediterranean Sea churned like a washing machine. A huge black-and-red cargo ship slid by on the horizon.โ
โNo. No boat today,โ the Syrian man who was working for the Turkish smugglers told them. โTomorrow.โ
โBut I was told it would be today,โ Mahmoudโs father said. โWe hurried to get here today.โ
The smuggler raised a hand and shook his head. โNo, no. You have money, yes? Tomorrow. You will get a text tomorrow.โ
โBut where are we supposed to go?โ Mahmoudโs mother asked the smuggler.
Mahmoud couldnโt believe it. They had spent two long days in cars and buses, trying to get here on time for the boat Dad had hired to take them across the sea to Greece. And now there was no boat.
โThereโs a hotel on the next block,โ the smuggler said. โThey take Syrians.โ
โWeโre trying to save money. Weโre going all the way to Germany,โ Dad told him.
โThereโs a park nearby,โ the smuggler said.
โA park? You mean sleep outside? But I have a baby โฆ โ Mom said, gesturing to Hana in her arms.
The smuggler shrugged as if it didnโt matter to him. His phone rang and he turned away to take it. โTomorrow,โ he told Mahmoudโs parents over his shoulder. โYou will get a text tomorrow. Be ready.โ
Mahmoudโs father huffed but immediately turned to his family and put on a smile. โWell, we always talked about taking a Mediterranean vacation,โ he said. โWeโve got an extra night in Izmir. Who wants to go out dancing?โ
โI just want to find someplace dry where I can sleep,โ said Mom.
Dad led them in the direction of the hotel. All the shops were closing as they walked back through town, but Mahmoud marveled at how clean everything looked here in Turkey. There was no rubble, no twisted metal. The cobblestone streets were in perfect condition, and flowers grew in front of perfect little houses and shops. Shining cars and vans drove past on the road, and lights glowed in the windows of buildings.
โDo you remember when it used to be like this in Syria?โ Mahmoud asked his little brother.
Waleed was gawking just as much as Mahmoud, but he didnโt say anything. Mahmoud took a deep, frustrated breath. He and Waleed had had their fightsโthey were brothers, after allโbut ever since Mahmoud could remember, Waleed had been more like his best friend and constant companion. They played together, prayed together, shared a bedroom together. Waleed had been the hyper one, bouncing off walls and hopping on furniture and kicking soccer balls in the hall. As annoying as his brother
had been sometimes, Mahmoud wished he would show a little of the old crazy again. Not even the Ninja Turtle that Mahmoud had bought for him in Kilis had cheered Waleed up.
Later, in the hotel lobby, Mahmoud was still thinking about how he could get his brother back when he heard the desk clerk say they had no rooms left.
โMaybe someone will share with us,โ Mahmoudโs father suggested to the clerk.
โYou will forgive me,โ said the desk clerk, โbut the rooms already have three families apiece.โ
Mahmoudโs heart sank. Three families in each room! And the hotel was full. What were the chances they would find a room anywhere else?
Dad searched on his phone and tried calling around, but it was the same story everywhere.
โBut how can they be so full?โ Mahmoudโs mother said. โThey canโt all be leaving tomorrow!โ
With nowhere else to go, they found the park the smuggler had told them about. But there was no room for them there, either. All the other refugees who had been turned away from the hotels were there, some sleeping on benches in the rain, others lucky enough to have tentsโtents that looked like they had been there for more than a day or two. Mahmoud slumped in the rain. He was so wet. So tired. He just wanted somewhere warm and dry to sleep.
โWe should have stayed at the refugee camp!โ Mom said.
โNo,โ said his father. โNoโwe move forward. Always forward. And we donโt stop until we get to Germany. We donโt want to end up stuck in this place. Letโs just see if we can find a dry spot for the night.โ
Mahmoud spied a thin Syrian boy about his age approaching each of the families in the park, offering them something. Mahmoud wandered closer to have a look. The boy saw his interest and came over to him.
โWant to buy some tissues?โ the boy asked. He offered Mahmoud a small unopened plastic pack of tissues. โJust ten Syrian pounds or ten Turkishย kuruล.โ
โNo, thank you,โ Mahmoud said.
โDo you need water? Life vests? A phone charger? I can get it for you, for a price.โ
โWe need a place to stay,โ Mahmoud said.
The boy looked Mahmoud and his family over.
โI know a place,โ the boy said. โI will show you for two thousand Syrian pounds or twenty-five Turkishย lira.โ
Two thousand Syrian pounds was almost ten American dollarsโa lot of money when you had a whole continent to cross. But the rain was getting stronger, and there was no place dry left in the park. When Mahmoud told his father the boyโs offer, Dad was willing to pay.
The boy led them away from the coast, to a neighborhood where weeds grew up through the cobblestones, and the houses had metal grates on the windows instead of flower boxes. One of the street lamps flickered, giving the street an ominous energy.
The boy lifted a broken chain-link fence that led to a parking lot. โHere,โ he said.
Mahmoudโs father gave the rest of his family a dubious look and led them under the fence. They followed the boy to a large square building with boarded-up windows and graffiti-covered walls. One of the boards blocking the door from trespassers had been ripped off, and they pushed their way inside.
It was a mall. Or it had been once. A large open courtyard with an empty fountain in the middle was ringed with storefronts that went up for four levels. A few of the shops were lit up with lamps connected to extension cords, and others burned kerosene lamps and candles. But most of the shops werenโt shops anymoreโthey were little apartments where people lived. Squatters in an abandoned shopping mall.
The boy led them to an empty yogurt shop on the third floor, next to a former music store that was home to a Syrian family of six. They looked like they had been there a while. They had a tattered old couch and a hot plate, and sheets hung from ropes to quarter the space into little rooms.
The yogurt shop had no furniture and a broken linoleum floor.
Something skittered away in the darkness when they went inside. โItโs just for the night,โ Mahmoudโs father said.
โYou leave tomorrow?โ the boy said. โOn a boat? Then you need life vests. Most definitely. Or else you drown when your boat flips.โ
Mahmoudโs eyes went wide, and he shivered in his soaking-wet clothes.
He didnโt like any part of this plan.
His father raised his hands to his family. โThe boat isnโt going to flip,โ he told them.
โOr run out of gas. Or wreck on the rocks,โ the boy said. โThen you drown.โ
Dad sighed. โAll right. All right. Where do we buy life vests?โ
