Lower Paradise Road by Sahar Mustfah

She refused to exit the car that her son had borrowed from his white roommate. She was convinced they both smoked marijuana. One year and she barely recognized him with his hair grown out and jeans that hung below his waist.

An apartment on Lower Paradise Road seemed a less auspicious place to start over.

“Yamma, it’s only a street name,” her son said in his loosely slipping Arabic. In one hand, he clutched the classified ads, thick red circles bleeding through the page. It was full of bold-faced words and acronyms she did not understand. In his other hand, he thumbed the screen of his mobile.

The bombing had gutted her school building, her classroom unrecognizable: no traces of desks, or the painted sea mural, or her books, or their laughter. Nothing left to imagine what it had once been.

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Her son leaned against her side of the car and tapped on the windshield with the car key. She could sit in the same spot for hours—she had remained hunched in a bedroom closet for days when the artillery began. But now she would surrender to her impatient son. She adjusted her shayla and unlocked her door.

Upper or Lower Paradise Road. Surely there was some place for her in between.