A Long Way from Home by Alice Walsh

attack. What did that mean? If America had been attacked, would they still be able to go there, or would they be put on a plane back to Pakistan? They were not citizens of Pakistan and didn’t have passports. Even worse, if they were returned to Afghanistan, it would be the end of them.
    â€œGander, Newfoundland,” Rabia whispered. How far are we from California? she wondered. How many more miles to freedom?
    If only she could find a phone, she would call Fatima, her caseworker at the relief organization. She might know something. Fatima had given Rabia her number and told her to call if there was a problem. Rabia had passed a bank of payphones when she came through customs. All had signs on them and a man stood, motioning people to keep moving. He kept repeating “Out of order.”
    A girl came into the room and took a seat across from Rabia. She stared in disbelief at the sight of her. Her hair was orange and green like a parrot, and stood up in spikes. Surely no one was born with hair like that. The girl wore baggy shorts and a shirt that came down to her knees. She took an object from her pocket and began punching it with her fingers. She put it to her ear. A wireless phone, Rabia realized. She had heard of such things.
    Rabia listened with interest to the conversation.
    â€œHe goes, ‘Why did you dye the dog purple?’ And I’m like, ‘It’s my dog and I’ll dye him any color I want.’ And he’s like, ‘That’s puppy abuse.’ And I’m like, ‘Well, if you’re so concerned, why don’t you call the SPCA?’ And he goes… ‘Well, you know they won’t do anything.’ And I’m like…‘Well, duh….’”
    What a strange conversation, Rabia thought.
    â€œI’ll call you back, Brittany,” the girl said. She glared at Rabia. “What?” she said, folding the phone.
    â€œWhat has happened?” Rabia asked. “Why are we being held here?”
    â€œHow would I know?” Scowling, the girl turned her back on Rabia.
    What a strange, rude girl, Rabia thought. Probably she is American and upset because her country is under attack.
    Rabia stretched out her leg, wincing from the throbbing ache where her prosthesis was attached. She needed a new one; this one was cracked in places and no longer fit properly.
    Emma returned to the room followed by a young couple. “Jim and Daisy Hayes,” she called, looking around.
    An elderly man stood up. “That’s us, Daisy,” he said. “C’mon, dear.” He reached for his wife’s arm.
    â€œThis is Adam and Darlene House,” Emma told them. “They’re going to take you to their home.” Rabia watched them shake hands and follow the couple out the door. Is that what we are waiting for — someone to take us home? Rabia wondered. Then another sobering thought jumped into her mind. What if no one comes for us?
    Rabia needed to go to the toilet. Maybe Emma could show her where it was. She stood up and walked toward her. “I need go…” She could not remember the English word. Sometimes when she didn’t know the English, she would mime what she meant, but not this time. She felt her cheeks flush.
    â€œDo you need to go to the bathroom?” Emma asked.
    Bathroom. Yes, that was it. Rabia nodded gratefully.
    â€œCome, I’ll show you where it is.”
    The bathroom was large and bright with beige and brown wall tiles. A mirror ran the length of the wall. Rabia counted six sinks, all with gleaming silver faucets. She leaned toward the mirror and studied her reflection. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and her face looked thin and haggard.
    Rabia was in one of the stalls when she heard two women come into the room.
    â€œImagine, killing thousands of innocent people,” one of them said.
    â€œSome people are pure evil,” the second woman replied.
    â€œPresident Bush should