In the center of the old town square stood a little shop with a crooked sign that read: “Hats of the World.” The door creaked, the window glass was clouded with age, and yet people always found themselves stepping inside when they least expected to. Amira, a twelve-year-old girl who often felt caught between her father’s Turkish heritage and her mother’s Swedish roots, discovered it on a rainy afternoon. She had been upset after a quarrel at school—her classmates had mocked her for wearing he...
