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After packing my things, my brother and I slept in the living room. My mother was on the phone with my uncle, my father’s Brooklyn cousin who we used to call Uncle Ibrahim or Ammu. It seems that their conversation was not smooth because my mother’s voice sounded extremely harsh. Her face was red, her left hand clutched the phone, while her right hand trembled as she adjusted the hijab that had fallen over her ears. The TV is talking outside. Hot news. We are glued to the screen. When my mother saw it, she rushed to turn off the television. She continued to talk to Uncle Ammu Ibrahim for a long time, with her back to us. Right after hanging up, the phone started ringing loudly again. There was a shrill sound in the middle of the night: too loud and as if it signaled something. My mother picked up the phone. It turned out to be a call from one of my father’s friends at the mosque, a taxi driver named Mahmoud. Everyone called him Red because of his fiery red hair. Red sounded extremely desperate to see my father. My mother said, “He’s not at home.” Then she listened in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Okay,” and hanging up.