After having spent time in the baking warmth of Tanzania, Kinza felt at home driving down the coast of Lake Michigan toward Chicago. Orange and yellow leaves scattered across the road as Zaid pushed the ancient Buick to its limits.
“Boy, you may live through a car crash, but I sure won’t,” Grams snapped at him from the back seat.
Zaid pursed his lips but let off the gas a little. All four of them were crammed in the car, Kinza in the backseat with her grandmother. They had left early that morning to be able to make it to downtown Chicago by lunch. The ride was long, but Grams had handed Kinza her phone and said, “I charged it for you. You might have a few hundred messages from Mitra.”
Kinza groaned. “What did you tell her?”
“Well, she called the night after you left. She was worried, b
