I barely slept that night.

Even after Luis had drifted off — curled on his side, sleeping slow and shallow the way he always did when at last the medicine took the edge off the pain — my eyes stayed open.

The ceiling fan above us hummed futilely, blades turning but accomplishing nothing to move the air. Sweat collected in a wet blanket over us, adhering to my skin. But it was not the heat that would not permit me to sleep.

It was him.

Alex. The wheelchair guy with suspicious answers and tired eyes. The visitor I'd invited, against all that I'd ever built, into the small, fragile life Luis and I'd made for ourselves.

What had I done?

---

Lagos stirred before I did at dawn. Roosters crowed somewhere beyond the compound fence; a peddler bellowed about fresh pap and bread. Luis coughed once, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

I slid down off the mat, toes touching cold cement, and walked to the window. Below in the courtyard, neighbors were already in motion — sweeping, running children barefoot, a woman scrubbing clothes in a plastic bucket.

Too late now to turn back, I said to myself.

By the time Luis got up, I had prepared pap and fried two eggs to serve across three plates rather than two.

He rubbed his eyes. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," I admitted. "We might have a visitor today."

His eyes sparkled, though there was a flash of puzzlement on his face. "Who?"

Luis cocked his head the way he does when he's thinking. "Where did you meet him?"

"By the market," I said. "He needed help."

"Does he have a home?"

I shook my head with a smile. "Not so."

Luis's eyebrows furrowed, concern creasing his twelve-year-old face into something older. "But… is he safe?"

His words shocked me. Not because I hadn't considered it, but because I hadn't thought he would.

"I think so," I replied quietly. "He seems… gentle."

Luis nodded slowly. "Okay." And like that, he'd made up his mind.

---

The knock in the middle of the morning. Three swift taps, followed by nothing.

I looked over the metal grille of the window and saw him: yesterday's man, hair slicked back, shirt pale blue today, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The wheelchair glinted where sunbeams struck the metal.

His eyes lifted, sighting me through the glass.

He looks tired, I thought. Tired but grateful.

I shoved the door open. "Morning," I said.

"Good morning," he said, low as if he was afraid to shatter something.

---

Luis looked from beside my hip, shyness overcome by curiosity.

Alex's eyes softened. "Hello," he whispered. "You are Luis."

Luis nodded. "Are you really from England?"

Alex blinked, a rapid flicker of surprise, and then smiled. "Partly, yes."

Partly, I thought. Another deliberately selected word.

---

I took a step back. "Come in," I said.

The doorway was tiny. Alex nudged one wheel, then the other, taking care not to scratch the paint already dulled from decades of habitation.

Inside the room, it seemed to close in on him. Our little table, the folding chairs, the mat still rolled up against the wall. The bookshelves lined with Luis's tomes and my crumpled design sketches.

It wasn't much. It was ours.

"Thanks for inviting me," Alex replied, voice a tad softer because the door was shut.

"It's not a handout," I replied quickly. "Just until you get things together."

"I know," he whispered.

---

I set in front of him a plate of pap and egg. He paused before he ate, as if the small, humble meal was some luxury.

Luis, ever forward once curiosity took hold, leaned in. "What did they do to your legs?"

"Luis—" I began, embarrassed.

"It's all right," Alex interrupted gently. His gaze met Luis's, hard and immovable. "I was in an accident. Car accident."

"Oh," Luis gasped. "Hurts?"

"Not as bad now," Alex said. "But some days… yes."

Luis nodded somberly, as if he were entering a silent fraternity of sufferers that endured.

---

We sat in silence mostly. The ceiling fan hummed above; outside, the radio of a neighbor filled the morning heat with highlife music.

And I said, "You said your name was Alex…?"

He put the spoon down. "Alexander, yes. But everybody calls me Alex."

"Alexander who?" I demanded.

A hesitation. His gaze fell. "Reed," he said at last. "Alexander Reed."

The name came out of his mouth, too smoothly. But fact or lie, I didn't know.

---

At breakfast, Luis insisted on seeing his treasures: a dog-eared comic, the broken wristwatch he was attempting to fix, and the battered laptop that wouldn't function in weeks.

Alex nodded, listening to him, asking little questions that made Luis glow. The laptop, he lifted with care, studying it in his lap.

"May I attempt it?" he asked.

"Attempt it?" Luis echoed.

"Attempt to make it function," Alex explained.

Luis's eyes widened. "Really?"

"If you wish," Alex said.

Luis eyed me. I nodded. "Continue."

---

Alex's hands moved nimbly across the casing, pushing one spot and releasing another, like he'd done this a thousand times. I stood there, observing the unasked question: How does a freshly arrived man in Nigeria, out of work and with no family, have a clue about failed laptops?

But I kept quiet.

A minute or so later, the screen flared, and then glowed with a gentle light. Luis gasped, his face twisting into a grin so innocent it hurt to see.

"You did it!" he exclaimed.

Alex smiled, a look almost demure. "Sometimes it just requires a gentle touch."

---

The moment was simple. But beneath, currents swirled: gratitude, suspicion, hope.

I couldn't help but remember the softness of his voice, the flash of grief when he spoke of family.

And yet — he could fix computers. He had an accent that teased and would not place him anywhere. His hands were square, competent.

Who are you, really? I longed to ask. And why do you look at my brother as if you are in his debt?

---

Luis tugged on my arm. "May Alex stay for lunch?"

I hesitated, then looked at Alex. He looked ready to refuse, too polite to half.

Yes, I said, startling both of us.

---

We ate rice and okra soup for lunch, surprise laughter bursting when Luis spilled water and Alex caught the cup out of the air with a lurching, late attempt.

"You have quick hands," I teased.

He ducked his head, a little flush rising to his cheeks. "Used to," he murmured.

---

Luis sat down to do homework after lunch, and the room was quiet.

"You don't need to tell me," I whispered.

"About what?" he asked, although we both knew.

"About why you actually came. Or what you're running from."

Alex's jaw snapped shut. Silence accumulated between us, no less oppressive than damp cloth.

Then he said, "Thanks. For. not asking more of me than I can do right now."

His honesty took me aback. Not the entire truth, but the truth about the lie itself.

---

Aside

Then, as twilight seeped into our little room and the call to prayer carried on the wind, he wheeled towards the door.

"I should go," he murmured. "Find a place for the night."

I found myself saying, "You can sleep here."

He stiffened. "Emilia—"

"On the mat," I said hastily. "Tonight only. Until you sort something out."

His shoulders relaxed, relief mixed with guilt. "Thank you."

---

That evening, Luis huddled against the wall, the clattering fan overhead, and Alex slept on the mat, eyes open to the cracked ceiling.

I slept next to Luis, feigning sleep, but hearing Alex breathe in the dark.

For the first time in years, another grown-up in the room made it less lonely. And more frightening.

---

There was no one.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll properly ask him. Tomorrow, he will inform me who he really is.

But tomorrow has a tendency to rewrite itself in Lagos.

---

End of Chapter 3