I’m fourteen when the boat’s engine cuts and the world goes still.

  We roll our luggage across the pier, wheels clacking like empty magazines. Uncle Abid’s cars wait under a sun that feels too clean—no smoke, no screams, just heat and salt. I keep counting heads: Mother, Mahir, Etisham, Odai, Aunt Kosar, Hiba, Hashir, the babies, the bags—counting because numbers don’t lie.

  The air here is calmer. Calm feels fake now.

  We reach Uncle Abid’s house. Familiar faces spill out—smiles, handshakes, tired hugs. My eyes sweep automatically: who’s here, who’s missing, who’s hiding something. Odai steps forward—one month older, same blood, same grin. We bump shoulders. No words. We’ve never needed them.

  Inside, bags drop, voices overlap. Someone asks, “Who’s coming next?”

  I answer without thinking: “Aunt Kosar’s family.”

  Odai raises an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

  “Call came to my father when we boarded. I heard.”

  He nods. Confirmation enough.

  Etisham starts joking, trying to inflate the room with normal air. I let him. I stay quiet, half-watching the TV, half-scanning exits.

  Hours later, Kosar’s group arrives—Hiba (thirteen, drama on legs), Hashir (younger, louder), and the rest. Greetings explode again. We pile into one room, bodies pressed, voices stacked.

  Hiba turns a simple plane story into a three-act tragedy. Odai cuts in: “That’s not what happened.” Hashir backs him instantly. I laugh—small, automatic. Hiba rolls her eyes, unfazed. She’s lying, but she’s *good* at it. I file that away.

  Later, Kosar’s mother tells me more relatives are en-route. Elders have decided to buy a bigger house together—shared cost, shared risk. Half the money already paid. Location: Makkah. I pass the info along. Etisham nods approval. Odai shrugs, but I see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Night: adults pack basics. Plan is simple—tomorrow we move.

  During lunch, TV stays on. Anchor voice tight:

  > “Pakistan has lost full communication. Nearby countries following. Leaders discussing nuclear options—then canceling. No explanation.”

  No one speaks. We chew in silence.

  I finish quickly, wash hands, leave the room.

  Inside, Aroha (thirteen, temporary guest) sits with Hiba, Odai, Hashir. They form a loose circle on the bed. I join, but stay on the edge—observing, not performing.

  Roasting starts. Aroha targets me. I hold fire, choose silence over retaliation. Odai watches, amused. Hashir switches sides instantly, laughing at me with the girls. I let them. Every reaction is data.

  Time slips. One by one, they fall asleep.

  Around midnight I wake up. Window’s cracked. I stand there, letting cool air hit my face. Odai notices, joins me.

  “What happened?” he asks quietly.

  “Nothing,” I answer.

  We step outside the room. Sky is already lightening—sunrise close.

  Soon, the house stirs. Everyone prepares.

  That’s when I learn: all our relatives have entered Saudia. Government announces—**no one can enter or leave anymore**.

  At the new house, exploration begins.

  Three floors. Four rooms per floor. Living rooms on each level. Large parking. Terrace. Roof.

  Kids choose to stay together. More relatives arrive—two grandmothers, Uncle Shamsher with his two annoying sons, and his daughter **Eshle** (thirteen).

  From the moment she arrives, rivalry sparks. She targets me. I hit back lightly, then run—don’t care who’s watching.

  Downstairs: Sherbaz and Shamsher argue over house ownership. I observe quietly, then whisper a solution to my mother: **shared contract, majority approval required**. Argument dies instantly.

  That evening, TV again:

  > “Leaders assassinated. Borders collapsing. Muslims begging to enter Saudia—rejected.”

  No one speaks.

  Later, I sit alone on the terrace. Earbuds in. Sad music. One-sided.

  Behind me, Eshle, Aroha, Hiba, Odai, Hashir try to sneak up. I sense it. Turn. Caught.

  Hiba snatches earbuds. Listens. Smiles. Hands them around. Roasting starts. I keep face straight, eyes tracking Odai—he panics, covers face. I think: *idiot*.

  Night: TV stays on. I watch everyone’s reactions and think:

  *I’ll solve things from the back.*

  Mother tells everyone I suggested the contract. Praise follows. I stop her.

  “Please… don’t tell anyone next time.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “I don’t like it. Just don’t.”

  She agrees.

  Life continues.

  Normal.

  For now.