Alaa spotted a wanted poster nailed to the lamppost. His own face grinned back at him in charcoal ink. He turned on his heel and bolted down the cobblestone street. But his toe caught a crumpled scrap of paper. He stopped, bent, and unfolded it. The words read: "They've got the wrong boy. Keep moving." His grip on the paper loosened.
Alaa smoothed the note flat against his knee. He stared at the poster again, then reached up on his tiptoes to read the fine print. The wanted boy owed the bakery three hundred loaves. The accordion player on the corner struck a sour note that sent pigeons scattering. Alaa pocketed the note and walked toward the bakery.
Alaa pushed open the bakery door and the bell above it clanged. Inside, a boy with Alaa's exact haircut stood on a flour-dusted table, jaw full of bread. He swallowed and pointed at Alaa's shoes. "You're the other one," he said. "They posted my face but spelled your name wrong." He hopped down and held out a warm roll.
Alaa climbed the wooden ladder and peeled the poster off the wall. The other boy scrambled up behind him with a pot of black ink and a stubby brush. Together they redraw the wanted poster, giving the face a ridiculous bushy mustache and a tiny hat. The wanted boy now looked like a silly old gentleman.
Alaa stepped back from the ladder and snorted with laughter. The wanted poster now showed a ridiculous old gentleman with a bushy mustache and tiny hat. He looked nothing like Alaa or the other boy. The other boy wiped ink on his apron and grinned. "Now they'll know it's not us."
Outside, the town crier rang his brass bell and read a corrected notice. "False alarm!" he called to the square. "The real wanted boy has two hyphens in his name!" The crowd murmured and dispersed. Alaa walked past with the warm roll in his pocket.
Alaa walked home with the warm roll in his pocket. The cobblestones clicked under his shoes. He didn't look over his shoulder once. The wanted boy with the bushy mustache stared out from every lamppost and wall. Nobody was looking for Alaa anymore.
Alaa reached his front door and paused. He thought about the boy with the flour-dusted apron, sharing a roll and a plan. He thought about the silly old gentleman on the poster. He pushed open the door and went inside, the warm roll safe in his pocket.