Chapter 45: In Heaven or Hell - My Name Is Samim

It’s past midnight, and the guests have only just left the house. I stumble to my room, leaning on Ayan, who looks like a different person when he smiles. He helps me to my bed and fist bumps me before leaving.

Miss Brown pulls the blanket over me and squeezes my hand. “Goodnight, darling.”

I love it when she calls me darling.

I stare at the ceiling, exhausted, but too hyper to sleep.

I get to stay. I’m safe. This is my home now. These thoughts fill me with joy and relief.

A stack of get-well cards sits on my bedside table. I’ve opened some of them, but there is still a mountain to go. A larger envelope sticks out among them, and my name is scribbled on it. The letters are crooked and of all different sizes; a small child must have written them. Maybe another cute drawing from Skye?

I sit up, rip the envelope, and pull out a grey, blotchy canvas.

My heart nearly leapfrogs out of my mouth.

How can this be?

My arms lose all strength and flop onto my lap, but my fingers keep squeezing the creased paper with all their might. I unfold it, and the star map opens before me.

A gasp escapes my heaving chest.

We strapped the star map to Zayn before getting on the boat in Calais!

How is this possible? Where did it come from?

I flip the map over. A message in Dari stares back. It says:

In heaven or hell.

I let go of the map and clutch my hair in shock, as my chest rises and falls with shuddering whimpers. I rub my face to clear my eyes. Am I dreaming?

There is a number under the writing. I grab my phone and dial it with trembling fingers, rocking back and forth.

Zayn couldn’t possibly have made it to safety. Could he? When I woke up at the hospital after being rescued from the Channel, I asked about him, and the doctors said no other boys my age had been brought in that day. I was crushed, but I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t have a life jacket to keep him afloat while unconscious.

Could this really be Zayn?

Please, God, let it be Zayn.

Three shaky beeps later, a familiar voice answers my call.

“Zayn? Is that you?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, but I can hear him breathing. When he finally speaks again, my brother’s voice is soft and shaky.

“Who else would it be, you melon-head?”