Do not forget. Keep looking.

For the last three years, Malik received the same message via email on August thirty-first. Emails, in his mind, were associated with assignments, college applications, or the occasional scammers claiming he'd inherited a castle from an unheard-of uncle in Timbuktu. But it all changed when the automated emails began pinging their way into his phone.

The irony? The email originated from an account Malik used to own.

Do not forget. Keep looking.

Malik tried to remember when he had typed the message or set up the automated delivery. He concluded it must've been the result of a drunken act as he tried to cope. It made the pit of his stomach fall. And whenever he thought about it, he attributed the feeling to the "no talking about it" policy his family had implemented.

As if Mena had never existed.

Uncle Botros cleared his throat next to Malik. "Ahem."

Malik sighed, his focus returning to the day's sermon. The orthodox church was full of pious men and women. Like his own family, they were of either Greek or Egyptian origins. The pews segregated the women and children from the men. The immigrant community was a harmonious group. Disputes revolved around food, although his mother was adamant Egyptians made better moussaka.

"Remember," Father B said, "God's door is always open."

Malik's mother, in her black dress, wiped the tears running down her cheeks. His sister Sarah's mass of curls leaned against their mother, her arm sliding around their weeping parent. Malik's chest felt tight, but he'd run out of tears long ago.

His eyes locked on the girl sitting next to his sister instead. She caught him looking, and her cheeks flushed a light pink.

She was on his list, not for her average looks or average personality, but to prove a point.

Yup. It was a fun game, an exercise in irrationality. Liz's parents and his own had been friends for over twenty years. He and his siblings had played and even gone to countless family gatherings. Liz never swore, never drank more than a sip of wine, and didn't have boyfriends, at least that Malik was aware of. She was the epitome goodie-two-shoes. The type of girl his parents, or rather his mother, would welcome with open arms. The plan was to date her. It would be a preamble of sorts to him coming—

"Amen."

The word ricocheted between the church walls, and Malik joined the solemn chorus with practiced automation. The families began to rush out in shuffles as the service was over. Some held Father B back with frantic questions, which he answered in his typical patient manner. His mother rattled question after question, which usually meant wasting a good half an hour sweltering in the heat. How the priest managed to stand those robes was beyond Malik.

"Jake." Sarah chased after her son. Jake decided on the grand idea of picking flowers from the church's garden and handing them out to the other kids. It was the perfect timing for Malik to make a move.

He caught Liz's flushed face as her mother prodded her in Malik's direction. After all, it wasn't uncommon for devout moms to push their daughters into getting married at a young age. They believed marriage prevented a person from straying into a path full of sin.

Or something of the sort. Malik must've snored through that sermon too.

"Hi," Liz said over the laughter of an elderly couple.

"Hey," Malik said.

"How've you been?"

Awful. "Good. Yeah, it's good to see you."

Too broad, he thought. "I heard we're in the same Uni."

"Yeah," Liz said, "What's your major?"

"Economics." He shrugged. It didn't matter.

"Oh, me too," Liz said with more enthusiasm.

Malik's smile widened. "So I guess we can catch up there. More than here anyway."

He had no idea if Liz was allowed to date. Would the church mouse change once she moved to a dorm and earned her independence?

The girl nodded. "I'd like to."

"Cool," he said as his gaze drifted to his mother.

His mother had come out of the church. Her long-time friend, Rosemond, had given her what appeared to be a rosary. In honor of Mena, who should've been seventeen last month.

Out of habit, Malik ran his fingers over his tattoo. He'd found an artist who replicated his brother's tat to perfection. Malik chose to have it on his forearm instead of his lower back, like his brother.

When they found his brother, the police hadn't taken the time to investigate. He was just another dead immigrant. He wasn't white enough to even elicit insane media coverage, reduced to a couple of lines in papers people had long stopped buying. When the family saw Mena's tattoo, not even they thought of it as having anything to do with Mena's death.

It was a hate crime. Nothing more.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was Malik who chased a pipe dream.

Except for guys and girls who had the same tattoo had gone either missing or in body bags.

Malik's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He excused himself, then swiped. "Yeah?"

***

Malik took selfies with the boxes ready to be moved in the background. The lighting was a little dodgy in some of the images, so he sat on one of the boxes to choose the best one. He clicked on the winning image to run it through an app for simple retouches. He made sure his well-toned abs were on display. When he adjusted the warmth and brightness of the image, his hazel eyes shone brightly.

He heard a cross between a snort and a laugh behind him. "Yeah, yeah, you're pretty."

Malik grinned. "Jealous I got the looks?"

Dressed in a floral sundress and strappy sandals, Malik's sister didn't appear as scary as she was. After all, she held a magazine instead of a sword in her hands.

"I did get the brains and the looks, you dweeb."

Malik shook his head. "No one says dweeb anymore."

His sister frowned, pushing a wad of thick curls behind her ear away from her gold hoop earrings. "Is this another way of saying I'm old?"

At thirty, she had a curvy body born out of long hours in the hospital and the stress of being a soon-to-be-divorced mom. She needed to learn how to chill.

Malik nodded." Yup. You're getting wrinkles."

She sighed, and Malik scooted over, patting half the box as if it were a seat.

Sarah sat without swiping the skirt of her dress beneath her and placed the magazine on her lap.

"What's up?" Malik said.

"Hmm," Sarah said. "Mom is trying to set me up."

"Go for it. Ow!" He yelped as Sarah jabbed him with her elbow.

"The divorce papers aren't even out yet. Christ. She keeps going on about how am I supposed to live without a man now? What is my job? A joke?"

"You do wear the same outfit to work every day."

"Haha," Sarah said, "at least I contribute to society."

"So do I."

"Right. What would the world do without pictures of your six-pack?"

"Just so you know," Malik said, "I am the official brand ambassador of Gastro Pro in Victoria City's 10K." He jutted out his chin.

He had received the call after church. He was one of the five Youtubers chosen for the event to represent the company.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "The who?"

"They're one of the top manufacturers of protein shakes."

"You sure they're not running a gay club?"

Malik whipped his head to check if they were alone in the garage. "What?"

Sarah spread the rolled magazine in her hands, and Malik's stomach dropped. It was an old issue of Queer Times. There were interviews with queer celebrities answering questions about their love lives. Sarah followed Malik's gaze, and he dropped them to his Nikes then back to the magazine. The special section featured a nude spread of Malik's favorite male models, a selection he found more enjoyable than Playboy.

Malik tried to laugh. "It was David and the guys. They were trying to make me sick."

"Oh?"

He swallowed, then snickered. "I almost barfed on David's shoes. I...uh, meant to toss it in the trash, but...why were you going through my stuff?"

Sarah shrugged. "I wasn't. I thought you might've forgotten something. I know the apartment has junk."

Uncle Botros owned an apartment building in Victoria City. Under his parent's constant nagging, he leased the apartment to Malik over the summer and extended it for a year. His mother was furious that Malik insisted on going back to the dangerous city that killed her baby. She had returned the box set of new cutlery to the store. By choosing to head to Uni, he'd forfeited his right to anything new.

"I got everything I need," Malik said.

"Right," Sarah said with caution. "When I caught Jason cheating on me—"

Malik rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

Sarah went on, "When I did find out, for a while, I pretended nothing happened. We went about our days, no fights, no slamming doors. Then when we did talk about it, I pretended I was over it when what I wanted to do was take him to the vet to get fixed."

Malik's hands unconsciously covered the family jewels. "Jesus."

"What I mean is," she said, "I was living a lie. It ate at me inside out. I wasn't a hundred percent at work. I spaced out at dinner and finished more than a half a bottle of wine on days off."

Malik's nostrils flared. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Living a lie was not worse than cheating," she said," but I hated the loss of control because I can decide how to live my life. On my terms. And I didn't."

If he said anything, it would mean he was hiding something or being defensive. Under the surface lurked the familiar shadow of fear and discovery. Sarah had no idea what he was going through. It would be selfish, cruel to do it to the family. Their parents would have to disown their last surviving son. It wouldn't be like a divorce; it would be an amputation.

He changed the subject. "I asked Liz out."

"Huh. Is she your type?"

"She's nice."

She squeezed his knee. "Mom would approve."

"She wants a teenage wedding, so I don't corrupt myself, and the devil won't tempt me with sin."

"Do we have to worry about a shotgun wedding?"

Malik smiled. "Imagine the scandal."

Sarah frowned, and Malik swore. They'd be the latest gossip since the murder. Their lives had become classified into two categories. What happened while Mena was alive, and what happened after his untimely death.

"Malik?"

"Yeah?"

"Your life. Don't mess it up."

Malik stared ahead at the parked Jetta. "I need to load up and go."

Sarah hopped off the box then hesitated before passing him the magazine. "Trash?"

Malik tore out the pages and ripped them into pieces that went into his pockets. The rest he tossed in a garbage bag. "I'll go say goodbye."

"No," Sarah said. "See you later."

In the living room, Malik's father clapped him on the back, and his mother wept. She made him promise to call as soon as he arrived safe and sound.

On the drive to the studio apartment, Malik watched his childhood home fade away into the distance. As much as he would miss the suburb, he couldn't wait to start a new chapter of his life.

Perhaps moving to the city would uncover the truth. He'd failed Mena in life. He couldn't fail him in death.

Do not forget. Keep looking.