One rainy Tuesday, Ardi found a bootleg DVD of Rush Hour 2 at the local market. On the cover, a handwritten sticker read:
Ardi was fifteen, living in a small apartment in Prishtina, and obsessed with action movies. His English was decent, but his father, Afrim, a night-shift baker who spoke only Albanian, always fell asleep during Hollywood films.
His father snorted. Then laughed. A real, belly-deep laugh Ardi hadn't heard since his mother had left for Germany two years ago.
