Home was a strange word, Zain realized – a stranger place – and he couldn’t mark it on a map.
He had lived in two houses. Standing in one, he stuffed clothes carelessly into his bag, smiled, said, “I’m going home for a few weeks.” No one misunderstood and, bag strung on his shoulder, he sauntered out.
Standing in the other, the word came just as easily: “I’ll be going home soon.” And he was the only one who blinked at it.
Home, he realized, was always the other place. Too many years of running between them and home was wherever he was not.