Dear Dick,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.

Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.

I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.

I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.

I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.

Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).

Yours literarily,

Mamba

January 16th. Entry No. 167

I'm the token woman on the marketing team. It is easy to spot us. There's one girl in accounting, one in sales, one in human resources, and there's the receptionist. We're stuck on teams of Roberts, Bills, Georges, and Christophers. Our opinions aren't as important as our image. I don't mean that we're all showstoppers, anyone who has seen Margaret knows she could benefit from a haircut and some foundation. I mean the heels, the blouses, and the lipstick. Don't companies look better when they've got women in all departments?

I thought so.

I applied for the position almost a year ago, now. I had a little portfolio of my designs, some experience in advertising, and a college degree. I beat a pink-haired lady, and the receptionist who wanted to work away from the front desk. But Leia has too pretty of a face, too feminine a body, to hide in a cubicle shoved in the corner.

The interview went well. The bosses laughed at my jokes. The girl from HR complimented my blazer. "Chic," she smiled. The guys agreed. They glanced through my portfolio. Bill liked the cards I made back when I studied abroad in Chile. The cards were invitations for el día de los niños, children's day, in the shelter I worked at. I liked the sentiment behind those designs, but they were easily the least impressive graphically. Nobody commented on the rest of my work.

Most of what I do is grunt work. Of course, I haven't even hit my ten-month mark. I'm not against paying my dues. I'll resize the images, recolor, write the email, contact the customer, sure. "Whatever you need, Bill," I smile. "Thanks," he winks. But it became clear that I may as well change my title from "Marketing and Design Specialist" to "Bill's Personal Assistant."

We hired Alexander a couple months later. He was nice, I supposed. But he'd been avoiding me for the last few weeks. Ever since I turned down his offer to take me on a date. It didn't matter that my current partner and I were speaking of marriage. It was too great an insult.

We have a weekly meeting every Tuesday where we discuss the status of the projects we're working on. I gave my typical bland report: I updated the graphic header for the interoffice communication, edited our monthly newsletter issue, and recolored the posters for the pop-art style we were doing.

Alexander, apparently, two months into the company was given lead design for the Xavier project. It was bigger than any project that I'd designed for. I couldn't believe it. Alexander wasn't bad, but his work was always so bland and sterile. There was no life to it, no flair. The Xavier project needed to be colorful with floral elements, and gold accents. Alexander's proposal had intricate blue and green lines intersecting to form different patterns on the posters, logos, and signs. They were a designer landscape, not some office supplies distributor.

Nobody asked what I thought, so I said unprompted, "it doesn't really say landscaping to me."

Bill looked at me sideways. "It's clean and simple, as landscaping ought to be."

I pulled up the photos of their projects they'd wanted us to incorporate. "Clean yes, but none of these are simple." I flipped through pretty koi ponds with pink lilies, palm trees and swimming pools, multi-level yards with tulips and irises, and stone walls with creeping thyme. "Xavier's Landscaping needs something that screams elegance, class, and—"

"We already sent this to Xavier for approval." Alexander cut in.

"I wasn't on the email list."

Bill let out his big signature guffaw, "he must have forgotten to add your email. Well, we all voted for it, and you know how democracy works."

Fancy way to say I didn't matter. I willed my face not to turn red and said, as cooly as I could muster, "just double check that you have all the recipients next time, Alexander."

I could see his scowl and anger bubbling beneath the surface. As if, how dare I correct him, how dare I ask to be a part of the team, how dare I insinuate that he may have made a mistake?

Bill has been hard to work with in his own way, but he deserves some credit. He gives me the easy and the boring projects, but he's nice. He's never chewed me out or needed me to ramp up my performance. My vacation requests were promptly approved, and he remembered to say happy birthday. I didn't mind having him as my supervisor. Robert and Chris don't interact with me much if at all. We speak when necessary and work together cordially.

I believed Alexander and I would have the same relationship. But he was charming at first. It was nice not to be ignored. After I declined to go on a date with him, he was silent. And now, he was cutting me out of the team as much as possible. The team was turning into a boys' club. Alexander was buying the boys beers. Robert was hosting a barbeque for the boys. Chris invited a couple of them to his bachelor parties.

For the first time, I'd been completely excluded from one of our jobs. And the Xavier Project, no less. The group I'd been collecting photos and information about. They didn't even let me proofread the brochure.

Bill was going to buy the team drinks. Alexander volunteered to drive them in his brand-new pickup. His stare meant I was clearly not invited.

The workday dragged on. The remaining six hours of the day felt like twelve. I texted Jason, down to grab some takeout and a box of wine? His response only made me feel worse, I have to work late, Muffin. I'll take you out for a real glass of wine this weekend. I don't know why, but I couldn't stop the tears. I pulled my scarf over my face to disguise them when I climbed on the bus.

I stopped at the store one block from my apartment and ordered the cheapest sub I could find and grabbed a ten-dollar bottle of wine. "It will be me and you, this evening," I whispered to the bottle of wine called Red Oaks. Tonight was certainly a night to dust off the typewriter and add another page to my journal. I only write when my frustration is boiling over.

I pulled the stack of papers out of the box and inserted a fresh sheet into the Typewriter.

"January 16th. Entry No. 167

I'm the token woman on the marketing team..."

Summers is the worst. Now, trust me on this, I'm no teacher's pet. I like school as much as the next kid, but I prefer the school months to the summer ones. I live way off the beaten path as ma calls it. My bus ride into school takes over an hour, though I've never timed the trip. I'm sure you can see where I'm leading. Nobody's parent wants to drag their kid an hour out of town down a dirt road that's made of more potholes than gravel. And neither ma, nor dad are going to drive us. It means me and my brothers are alone for two months.

Alone, however, doesn't just imply boredom. I'm sure my brothers and I could entertain ourselves alright. But dad has other ideas. It's the job of us kids to keep up after the chickens and drag the goat back to the homestead after he gets out for the third time this week. We've got weeding, watering, pruning, and harvesting to do. The tractor quit two years ago, so even in the spring, when we used to be free, we were up early and up late trying to plant all the produce.

Ma couldn't even help this year because of the new baby. She was off her feet for weeks. Dad was more upset than I thought it was alright for him to be. Ma's absence meant extra work for all of us. Dad even dragged Kit, who used to be the baby, out to the farm this year. He's only four or five, but Dad said his father forced him out in the fields when he was even younger. Dad is always telling us how lazy we are compared to him as a child. Grandma would be ashamed, or whatever family member he tries to condemn us with that day.

The verbal lashings are better than the real ones. They don't come often, but when the day has been real hot, and dad's got a cold brown bottle in his hand, one little slip up of the tongue or even a slip of the feet could land us in trouble with dad. There may not be many trees around, but he'll find a switch, that's for sure. It stings bad.

I wish I could say we get days off, but even Sundays, when we don't have to get up too early, are miserable. We all pack into the truck. Us kids are too many to fit in the cab now. Will and Mickey have to sit in the back of the truck on the way to church and pretend that the sun-drenched metal truck bed isn't burning their skin off when they sit.

We're always late to church. Dad chews everyone out when we get home. Sabbath is supposed to be a day of rest, I think. But dad drives us out to collect the eggs, milk the goat, pluck the pesky yellow worms off of the zucchini, and water the thirsty plants. The last day of school has me counting down to the end of August. When I heard they were drawing out the school year last year, I got excited. Dad was real mad, and even more upset that I was grinning while he shouted. He switched me real bad that day.

Today was Tuesday, I think. Missing church always messes with my memory. Ma and the baby have the flu so we're not allowed to bother her. It was all okay for dad, though. He woke us up with the sun and drove us to the yard without breakfast. Without ma, we can't feed ourselves more than bread with whatever jam is on the shelf. She won't let us touch the stove. The gas is broken so the flames shoot real high. She gets burned all the time and won't let us near it.

I knew the day was gonna be a bad one when dad flicked Kit hard for whining about breakfast. The sun was hotter than normal. My skin has already been burned to a crisp. Dad says the sunscreen will kill us faster than the sun, so he won't let us use it.

After a few hours in the sun even Mickey, who idolized dad and did whatever he asked with reverence, was begging for a break.

We chugged water and made a couple mayo sandwiches. Now, I don't like mayo sandwiches one bit, but after a morning of hard work in the hot sun with no water, I could've eaten ten of them. Kit barely had three bites of his sandwich when dad was ushering us back out into the field.

One of the ties on my braid snapped and dad wouldn't let me go in the house for another one. He said he had half a mind to cut off my pigtails and be done with it. So, I tied the ends of both together with the one I had left. If I have one thing I like about myself, it is my hair. It was as blonde as ma's and real long too. I wore all my brother's old hand-me-downs. Without my braids, I'd look just like a boy. Dad couldn't cut my hair. I knew he'd forget about it if I dropped the topic altogether.

Dinner was nothing but sandwiches too. We had one bowl of chili left, but dad said that was for ma. But at least this time we got to put some tuna on our sandwiches. I was downright starving.

Bedtime followed shortly after. Now, most kids hate bedtime. I don't hate the sleeping part. I hate sharing the bed with Kit. He still acts like he's not even potty trained much and wets the bed at least once a week. Now, I suppose I don't get too mad, except when waking up in the middle of night. Laundry is my job, so it gets me out of the sun a day or two a week. Anyways, I guess I just like going to bed because it makes me one day closer to the start of fall and the end of summer.

Azalia focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. She focused on gently rocking baby Lohan in her arms. She had no idea why, but it was imperative that the baby didn't cry. She cried, though silently. Did Mac and Kaliaa make it? She hoped against hope that they did. Would Lohan be able to see them again? He was too young to be an orphan. The sky was heavy and dripping with a torrent of explosives.

She was crammed in the basement of a small yet sturdy church along with six of her neighbours. Netha, the old woman whose presence she was glad for. Allie and Juneka, twins that were two years younger than her. Dio and Eren, who were in love and who she shared her house with. Sami who flirted with her and she could never tell whether the other teenaged girl was serious or not. She could almost hear the war raging around them. For some reason there was abject silence around her. But people were clutching each others' hands, leaning against each other, crying into each other's shoulders. She held Lohan in her arms. She had been looking after the infant boy while his parents were out in the fields. He was teething, meaning that he was especially fussy. But now he had went still with terror. That was good. Even if they did survive this bombing, it was almost certain that this was the last holdout before the entire fucking town fell. And she knew the rules of war.

Hours and hours passed. Lohan was asleep for a lot of it. Thank the gods. But he woke up hungry and fussy and crying like all eight-month-olds who missed their parents and were hungry would be. Azalia literally did not have any food. Nobody did. She gave him her finger to suck on and kept rocking him and prayed that he'd feel some sense of comfort but she knew what the boy needed and she knew she was an abjectly powerless poor young peasant girl and if she walked out of this church right now she'd just be delivering the boy to enemy soldiers.

Eventually she couldn't ignore the child's hunger any longer. As much as getting bombed or shot would kill the kid, starving would also kill the kid. Loud crying that drew attention to their hiding spot would get literally everyone captured including Lohi.

"Aunt Netha can you take Lohan? I need to get some food." Her voice was hushed as she spoke to the old woman beside her.

"Sure. Good luck. Stay safe." The tired old woman gently took baby Lohi from her and Azalia slowly arose and quietly walked towards the heavy metal door.

"Be careful," someone whispered to her but she didn't know who.

The day has melted into twilight when she stepped out. She started in the shadows of bombed-out rubble. Not that it provided much cover. All the buildings in their farming town were barely taller than her anyways and now they were mostly dust. For the past four years people had crammed themselves into the increasingly dwindling living space like the story of the little pigs. She loved the small, simple one-room huts she shared with her family and neighbours. But that was back when they were six to a hut now it was frequently fifteen. And her family was gone. She stayed near the few still-standing walls and near broken trees. Off in the distance soldiers were concentrated, she could tell by how laser fire lit the darkness with an eerie yellow.

She found a tree that was full of soft, sweet jili fruits. Thank the gods. Ignoring her own fatigue she hoisted herself onto the higher branches. She had no basket to put them in, Fuck. She was really unprepared. She slipped off her shirt, ignoring the cold of the night, and tied it into a sort of bag.

After she had filled the worn threads of her shirt she climbed out of the tree, careful to not spill anything. She walked quickly back to the church, ready to collapse the moment she got there.

And really she should have been more careful. It was, it was cloudy, it was moonless, it was starless when the unnatural glow of a laser bolt zipped dangerously close to her, briefly illuminating her terrified slight figure. She stood there frozen before she ran off into the cover of a pile of rubble.

"Hey! What's a young lady like you doing in a war zone like this?" Azalia couldn't breathe. The words were kind but the tone was seeped with haughtiness, with predatoriness. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?

The tall, hulking form of a man dressed in a uniform strode up to her, backing her into the brokenness around her.

"Please let me go. I have a baby." Her voice was shaking. He charged up his blaster, so that the barrel was lit with a soft glowing light, too dark for the fighters in the distance to see. It glowed pale against her olive skin, dim against his camouflage. She hated all the soldiers equally regardless of what side they were on. She hated this whole war and the governments in their palaces that started it. But she could see that this guy was an enemy soldier. And that made things worse for her right now.

"And who's the lucky father of this baby?" He staked a step closer, leaned in until she was lying against the sharp prices of clay. She shook her head, terrified.

"What, did he die? Did one of our guys kill him? I suppose I should thank that comrade for making you available." What the fuck? If she wasn't two moments away from literally getting raped she would've laughed at this idiot soldier. She didn't have a dead husband or a living husband or even a boyfriend. She had her friends' child who she loved as her own. But that was the thing. Zohan was getting weaker by the moment and his survival was more important than anything that happened to her. This man might for all intents and purposes kidnap her. And then how would she deliver the much-needed food? She needed to think. The man was straddling her hips but making no attempt to get any of her clothes off, instead hovering his weapon on different parts of her body, idly looking over each piece of skin he illuminated. She was panicking more than she ever had, desperately digging with her hands through the rubble for any sort of weapon at all.

"You're by far the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.

Though I suppose you're not quite a woman yet. And I found you which means I get you by the way. I can't believe my luck. You're going to like it in Zirunika you honestly are. There are buildings that soar to the sky and shine in the sun. There are marble monuments to our glory. Bright gardens. It's beautiful there much more beautiful than in these backwoods villages. I'd be taking you away from this squalor and drabness."

"Sir just let me go." She squirmed under his roving hands.

"You're too pretty. Prettier than anyone I've seen. Prettier than anything I've seen. I'm never letting you go. I'm taking you to civilization with me." His words were heavy and thick and pressed down on her throat and chest.

Finally her hands clutched around a shard of clay pottery. It was easily sharp enough to tear through flesh. But so much of the soldier was covered in thick fabric. Through the haze of horror, worry, and disgust a plan pulled itself together.

Striking quickly, she brought the shard up to the skin of her neck and started pressing down, hard enough to draw blood. It was a risky move. But it worked. He stopped, looked at her in... maybe it was confusion?

"I promise to come back to you. But first I have to drop this stuff off. Do not follow me. Or else I will kill myself. And then where would you get your perfect little war prize? Let me drop this off and then I swear I'll be back."

"Stop this madness."

"Take me to your beautiful civilization just let me do this one last thing as a free person."

"You'll come back?" There was something almost childish in his words.

"I promise."

"Fine." He got off her. And everything inside her screamed at her to run. But she knew better. She has to sell the lie. She's been poor for long enough to know the value of lying to power. But now it was more important than ever that she succeeded at deception. She walked calmly into the night.

"— wait." She turned back, just as he latched a thin band of metal around the base of her neck. He pressed his thumb into it and, goddamn, she felt like she wanted to die right there. But she hid the feeling.

"This ensures you'll come back to me, and that you'll stay with me all the days after."

"Alright sir."

She walked through the active war zone back to the little church where she'd see her people for the last time. She was extra vigilant that nobody followed her. She didn't want to lead them to the rest of her people. Lohan was to young to be west away from his world, and honestly nobody deserves it. She felt like her entire soul was flaking apart. She felt like her humanity was being drained from her. The collar was smooth and left plenty of room but it felt like a barbed wire noose. She was used to terror. She was used to hunger. She was used to weariness that settled into every corner of her being. She was used to grief that was insurmountable. She was used to physical pain. She was used to cold, to sickness. She was used to mourning, she was used to constant anxiety. And it all hurt terribly and she hated all of it but at least she had her friends and neighbours to get her through it. But now this was goodbye. This was farewell. And she wouldn't even get to say it to everyone.

She silently descended into the basement of the church, and pulled herself in, She passed the fruits to Sami. And then collapsed in her arms crying. Sami held her and cried with her.

"I'm glad to have known you," Sami said softly.

"You too."

Azalia stayed there for a while, in the embrace of her people. Holding baby Zohan, feeding him one last time. Telling him how much she loved him, how much she hoped he had a good life. She fell into the arms of Eren and Netha and Dio and Sami and Allie and Juneka. They told her how much they loved her. How glad they were to have known her. How kind she was. How strong she was. How interesting her thoughts were. How much she helped them and protected them through the horrors of the long war. How much they enjoyed raising her or playing with her before the war started. How much they would miss her. How they wouldn't forget her. How they would think of her and would hope things were at least a little bit kind for her. She told them how much she loved them too.

Hours passed. The fighting died hadn't down around them. It wasn't safe to leave yet. But Azalia knew that she had to. With tears in her eyes she hugged everyone one last time and stepped out of the door. It was still dark.

She walked past the rubble that was all anything was these days. She didn't take precaution to avoid getting killed. She turned to see that the tree she had picked jili fruits from has been killed in the bombing. Nothing good lasts. She had her shirt on now and it felt like a small bit of protection. She waited near the same rubble pile where she first "met" the soldier. She didn't even know his name. She let her tears flow freely.

Another hour or so passed. The fighting died down. A military glider zoomed up to where she was standing. Headlights shone through the darkness. It was emblazoned with the seal of presumably Zirunika. It could fit a lot of people, if they sat close, but only for people stepped out of it. One of them was that man. With great effort she kept her body absolutely still.

"Oh gods, she is a fine thing. It's not fair that you found her first Patton." The soldier's tone was jovial.

"Well maybe Lord Aldura favours me. Because she is mine."

They bantered back and forth a little bit. Azalia couldn't pay attention to any of it, her mind was screaming. Patton slung her over his shoulder and got on the glider. He positioned her onto his lap as he sank into the plush seat.

"You'll love it there. I have so much to show you." He traced the hemline of her pants.

As they zoomed away Azalia kept her eyes glued to her village until it faded into the night.

———

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I po about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

“Stop. Where are you going?”

“Relax dad.” Kashi said, grabbing her car keys from their hook in the kitchen. “You told me to go to college or get a job. I’m going job hunting.” she snagged a pear from the bowl of fruit on the table.

“Hardly an appropriate outfit for an interview.” Her dad scoffed, evidently trying to recover from the shock that she was doing something he asked.

Kashi looked down at her old, ripped jeans and sleeveless plaid shirt. “Well, if I don’t get the job then you are free to say I told you so.” She said, spitting the words out and offering him a half smile, half grimace. “And I know you told dad last night, Felix.” She pointed.

He smirked.

Kashi slammed the front door behind her and laced up an old pair of work boots before jumping into her truck. Kashi jammed the key in the ignition and turned it roughly. She stuck the aux cord in her phone and slid her favorite pair of sunglasses with a smile. She rolled down the windows and sped down the long driveway along the length of a pasture full of cows. The dirt flew up in a cloud behind her.

The main road was so rundown it was nearly as postmarked as her driveway. A short ten minutes later she pulled up into a steep driveway up a hill to a magnificent and sprawling one story blue house. New landscaping over the front hill greeted her. It looked good.

She parked her truck at the top of the paved driveway, leaving enough space for the other vehicles to pull out should they need to. She tied on a bandana to hold the loose hairs that didn’t fit into her braids that were thrown behind her shoulders. She hopped up the three stairs to the covered porch and marched to the front door to ring the bell.

“Be right there!” A feminine voice shouted. When the door swung open, a short woman with graying hair smiled broadly. “Kashi! I wasn’t expecting you! And so early too? I didn’t know that you could get up before nine.”

Kashi laughed. “It’s good to see you Auntie C.”

“Come in, won’t you?” Her aunt said, “It’s getting very warm outside as late summer rolls in. “I was just starting to make lunch for all the hired help. And the boys of course.” She added. “Takes me a few hours to do it now. Ever since your uncle bought out Mike’s old land, we’ve had nearly double the workers.”

Kashi nodded, “Dad was mad when he heard Uncle Hudson bought more land. What is with those two always trying to outdo the other?”

Her aunt waved a hand, “They’re just stubborn old men, aren’t they?” She walked into the kitchen with Kashi in tow. “So, what brings you here?”

Kashi pulled out a stool by the island table in the middle of the kitchen. She sighed then relayed the whole story to her aunt. “...He said that I have to find my own job or go to college. College just isn’t my thing. I know Uncle Hudson is always looking for more help. So...?”

Her aunt nodded. “It is a heavy workload, but I’m sure your uncle would love to teach you what to do. He said the other day that he missed you and your brothers.”

“Dad doesn’t like us visiting. It’s like he’s afraid we’ll ‘switch sides’ on him.” Kashi laughed, using air quotations.

“Well come help me get this pork made and we’ll ask your uncle when he comes in for food.” Her aunt said with a smile. “Wash your hands dear.”

A few hours later, her uncle, and a stampede of other hungry helpers, rambled into the covered porch each grabbing a prepared plate of food.

“Get over here Hudson, your niece came to visit!” Aunt C. shouted from where she was sitting next to Kashi, eating her own meal.

Her uncle came over with a smile on his face. “Good to see you Kash! What brings you over here? Your dad didn’t send you, did he?” Kashi couldn’t tell if he was hopeful or surprised.

“No, dad told me I wasn’t working hard enough. I needed to get a job or go to college. I just had to pick one.” She exhaled before repeating the story she told Aunt C. to her uncle.

He nodded when she finished, taking an extremely large bite of the sandwich on his hands. She waited on his response, and he pensively took a few pacing steps in Aunt C’s direction. “Well, I’ve known you to be a hard worker.” He said finally. “But your dad might not be pleased with the prospect of you being here.”

“I’m an adult.” Kashi said, tugging at one of the braids in her hair. “He’ll get over it.”

“You’d have to wake up early.” Her uncle said, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow.

A smile bloomed on Kashi’s face. “You got it, Uncle.”

PART I:

Delhi, India

2012, August 13, in the thick of the hot season

Amit hurried through the streets, running a hand through his hair. It was dry and cut too short. He’d refused the coconut oil his grandmother had insisted he apply for his first job interview.

His first real job interview, she had reminded him, tsking as he had hurried out the door.

Amit had glanced up at the painting of Krishna above the door frame and offered up a silent prayer.

Now, he dodged a tuk-tuk on the street. The driver honked and swerved, but Amit stayed the course.

It wasn’t his first job interview.

It wasn’t, in fact, a job interview at all.

He ducked in a side alley and ran, dodging lines of hanging wash and piles of fly-infested garbage.

The whole place stank, mixing with the scent of his own sweat through his stiff velour coat.

Another good reason not to add coconut oil to the mix.

Deep in the ally, he stopped, tucking his tie into his collar.

The cover had been necessary. Painstaking. His work required that.

The sounds coming from the other side of the door: a chair spun across the floor, then slammed into the wall, followed by a gagged scream.

It must be going well.

PART II:

Colombo, Sri Lanka

December 12, 2013

It isn’t so much the morning air, as the dogs, barking at our heels.

It isn’t so much the dogs, their matted manes and yellowed teeth, nipping at our shoes, as it is the stench from the pig pens which barely hold in the odor nor the piglets nor the overflowing piles of dung.

But it isn’t even so much the stench, filling our nostrils and making us wheeze, as it is the feeling in the air, like the fallout from an atomic bomb or the devastating aftermath of a Tsunami.

We stop to stretch.

He, slower and built; me, with more years ahead of me to catch up on those pounds.

The humans all around us: they actually live here.

I reach my hands down to my feet, feel the twinge of my hamstrings. This is good.

For him, it’s normal.

He lives here too.

Not here, in the filthy sweating lean-tos on the trash-littered beach, but here, just a few blocks inland, away from the storm surges and the worst of the winds.

He’d survived a Tsunami three years prior.

But Bohrs has never talked about it.

“It’s here, too,” I comment.

The people. The mothers. I see them. I see myself in their reflections. The children are already coming out of the lean-tos, though the sun is barely a glow on the southern horizon.

Their eyes are hungry. Their hands are out.

“Here too,” says Bors.

He nods his head toward the furthest hut, the one closest to the swanky hotel jutting out like a pearl on the south side of the beach.

A little girl comes toward me, with eyes like that of a wolf, hungry.

“White lady. Give me money.”

She is ugly, her mouth turned down and dirt caked on her face. She despises me.

I shake my head.

She jolts her hand further outward as if to force the question.

If she had a knife, she’d probably pull it.

I squint and spot the telltale sign on her scalp, just covered by her hairline.

She has it too.

I purse my lips together and look at Bors, the question in my eyes.

Where is this coming from?

That’s what we’ve come to find out.

PART III:

Delhi, India

2012, August 13, still hot as ever.

Still in the Thick of the Heat.

“Just in time.”

Amit stands in the doorway and observes.

His hands aren’t crossed.

If he hadn’t seen this many times before, if he hadn’t had that part of him carefully numbed, he would feel a shiver run down the length of his spine.

And then back up again, coloring his face, making his heart pound.

Instead, he takes a step forward, then another.

The woman is in front of the four men, eyes covered by a black cloth, face turned upward, head leaning against the back of the chair, mouth open, panting hard.

He leans in to the closest man and lowers his voice.

“What did she say?”

There is blood trickling down the corner of her mouth.

He had told them not to ruin her face.

A malleable character, full of potential.

“Nothing.”

It was the shorter man, the one with a clean shave. The one who looked like he could be selling Saris out of his uncle’s bridal shop.

Which he did in the evenings.

Amit shakes his head and puts on the voice synthesizer. If she survives, it will be useful for them if she doesn’t know it was him.

Neha was not meant to come to this. But if she must, she must.

He takes a bat from the hand of the less-clean-shaven man, the one who looks like he might do this sort of thing for a living, and he lifts it behind his shoulders like he’s a cricketer about to swing.

“Neha,” says Amit.

She can hear the frustration in his voice, even through the strange tone of the voice masking. It’s probably the way he’s talking, through slitted teeth.

Her shoulders tense and her head shakes the tiniest bit, like a baby refusing food.

“I don’t want to have to do this. I even wore my best suit, added a silk tie. But…”

The prayers and his grandmother were long forgotten. Or were they?

Amit tightens his grip on the bat and looks toward Neha as if she were a ball about to be bowled toward him.

“I…please…”

Neha whimpers and then chokes. A bit of blood comes out of the corner of her mouth. It’s unbecoming for a lady.

Amit shakes his head.

“Neha,” he says. “I’m asking you one last time.”

She is sobbing now, fighting, trying to get her hands out from behind the chair. It’s like she knows the end is coming.

“No, please…I don’t know…I can’t…I can’t…”

The blow comes hard and fast and Amit feels the satisfying crunch of bone on bone, as something small and white and bloody flies out of her mouth and across the room.

She’s blubbering and spitting up blood and leaning her head forward as she tries not to choke.

Her hair is a mess now.

Amit watches, the end of the bat balanced on the floor, the hilt of it between his hands.

He spreads his legs.

“Plea.…ple.. please…” she pleads, saliva choking her words.

“Oh ple- ase,” she chokes, “Please God.”

She looks up, and for a moment Amit wants to laugh, picturing her five months ago, done up in reds and whites and yellows the day of their engagement.

END OF NOVEL EXCERPT

As it eventually will with every young man, he sees her and is struck. He is struck by her beauty, struck by his own youthful incapacities, and struck by the giddy paralysis of a fear so deep it can only be known by one whose own status is deemed by themselves to lie below that of their infatuation’s. “I cannot,” he reasons as he gazes upon her, “be worthy of her. Yet who else would ever love her as I would? Who could?”

“But, how to make her notice me?” He wonders, until presently it occurs to him to display for her that one thing that he can do well, as that one thing might somehow reveal to her the feasibility of other, hidden potentials within him which she, and only she, might manifest within him given time… if only she would look at him now.

And so the boy shows himself off to her. He is young. His skillsets are few and mostly outlandish, but he is completely unmindful of what the rest of the watching world may think. The urge is strongly upon him to somehow impress her in ways which he has not yet had time enough in this world to formulate, but he will try. He must try. And if the lad has wit he will manage it in a convincing and winsome enough manner that he will gain some however-so small affection from her... a smile, a touch, a peckish kiss. Any of those would be enough for now, as he would have been seen.

It began two Thursday’s ago, and has not let up since. Out of the blue the boy began showing up nearly every day, some days two or three times a day, dribbling his basketball on the sidewalk out front of Trisha’s house. He could only bounce it, as there is no basket out there to shoot at, so sometimes he bounces it up high, or sometimes he dribbles it down low, wrapping it effortlessly behind his back and then scissoring it between his legs, spinning the ball on his finger, and then on his forehead, and then dribbling it some more and more and more as he spins and jukes and out-fakes invisible sidewalk defenders.

Oh, she sees him all right. Trisha watches him through the window slats, her face a torpid mask meant to hide her curiousity away from sniggering parents. The boy was actually quite good at bouncing his ball, so she waited to see what tricks he might do with it next.

He made dribbling the ball look so easy that once, when the bouncing boy had finally gone, Trisha went out to the garage, where she picked up her brother’s ball and tried dribbling it herself, but her hands moved awkwardly, and the ball was too heavy. It always bounced too high, so that she couldn’t even begin to do the boy’s tricks. In fact, it was all she could do to keep the stupid ball bouncing near enough to her that she could bounce it again. She quickly discovered that what the boy made to look so easy was really not so easy at all.

Of course, at least initially, it wasn’t just her parents, but even Trisha who found the bouncing ball annoying. The infernal thump, thump, thumping of the ball drug her to the window from her daytime bed where she laid listening to music, or from the couch when she was watching television. The thumping was out there during supper, and when she was dressing, and all the time it seemed. When she could do so without it being obvious Trisha would sneak over to peek between the blinds at him dribbling the ball, and spinning it, but the boy never, ever looked over at her window, or even towards her house, but only dribbled his ball as though neither she, nor even her house, were even there.

But our girl Trisha was no one’s dummy.

Who was he, she wondered? And why was he doing this? It seemed to be a very strange thing to do, but then it also didn’t. At first it had appeared to be a random act, as though her house just happened to sit on his route home from the basketball court or something like that, but it quickly became obvious that there was a greater purpose to his dribbling here, that it was for someone’s benefit, and her vanity allowed her to suspect that the someone he was doing it for might be her, not that she really cared about the boy one way or another. She didn’t even know him. But why else other than to impress her? Why did he always stop right here in front of her house every day? And why bouncing a ball? If he was truly coming to impress her, or any other girl for that matter, why bring a basketball? Why not sing, or dance, or anything more romantic than bouncing a ball? It was a curious mystery, but then… she did enjoy a curious mystery.

Regardless of their intent Trisha came to look forward to his visits, her heart leaping at the first thump. She no longer felt the need to go peek every single time, though she did it quite often anyways. It was enough just to know he was there. After all, she knew very well by now what he looked like, and what he was doing, and she suspected that she was the reason, so there was really no need to peek, was there? If he truly was coming here to dribble in front of her house in an attempt to impress her then not peeking was almost a form of playing hard to get, wasn’t it? A way of showing him that she had more important things to do than to watch him play with his ball? So she shouldn’t make herself available to him every time, should she? The boy might get the impression she was easy, or uninteresting. No. She could not allow that.

Still, most times she peeked. She couldn’t help it. And when she did so she wondered if he noticed the break in the blinds, and if that break gave her peeking away? Sometimes she even hoped that he did see it. Trisha was alone a lot, which did not make for a particularly happy girl, and during those times when she was not peeking she took on an unconscious habit of brushing her hair until the thumping echoes of the ball faded away into the twilight, and of smiling as she brushed.

Oddly, Trisha began to wish the boy was out there even when he wasn’t, and she found herself discouraged when he was not. Depressed even. She began to wonder where he was, and what he had found that was more interesting to do? And then she would hear ghost balls thumping on the sidewalk. She would run to the window but the boy wouldn’t be out there; this seemed always to happen while lying in her bed at night for instance, or when she was naked in the bathroom. And even more strangely, she found herself peeking out when there was clearly no ball out there thumping, hoping that the boy might be just down the street, bouncing it up the sidewalk towards her house.

”Is that boy a friend of yours?” Her father finally asked her. “Why don’t you go out there and make him stop?”

Go out there? Was her father a fool? She couldn’t go out there! Going out there would break the magic. The boy would see that she was not so special, that she was just a girl and not so pretty, and was infinitely awkward at that.

”What’s the matter? Scared?” Her father taunted, making fun when there was nothing funny about it. But was she scared? Scared of what? Of a boy bouncing a stupid ball? Of course she was not scared. She would show her father. She would go out there! But first she would go see how she looked. Once in front of the mirror she touched her hair a few times to little effect, but it wasn’t really her appearance that she wanted to see, was it? What she needed to see lay deeper than that, so rather than primping she gazed into her own eyes, gauging their strength, asking them if this was truly what she wanted, to meet this boy whose attention she had somehow attracted, and to take a chance on driving him away? Wasn’t it better to leave things alone, and to keep this little thing between them as it was? The eyes in the mirror told her no. Trisha saw in them a readiness, almost a hunger to meet the boy, to find out who he was. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated no longer.

It was actually a relief to find herself on the tiny front porch, and to hear the door click shut behind her, and to see that he had not noticed her there yet, but there was no turning back from here. She was committed.

“Hi!”

The ball got away from him for just a second. It was a little thing, but it was the first time in all her peeking that she’d seen a fumble from him, which meant nothing really, while also meaning very much when she considered her own continuous fumbling in the garage when she had attempted to dribble her brother’s ball. Trisha’s initial thought had been that he was a boy, so dribbling the ball was easier for him, but that was not right. He was obviously athletic, but where did that come from? Was it genetics, hand-eye coordination handed down from mother or father, or both? And how did speed play into that, and balance, and dexterity, and strength? No, he could only reach the level of skill he had achieved through diligence. She wondered where he found such a thing as diligence, and why?

He was really not very big, seen from a closer perspective, not much taller than her actually, yet he looked strong, if lithe. He caught up with the fumbled ball and tucked it under his arm as he turned to face her, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, his chin held high in an exaggerated, almost comically masculine posture.

“Hi.” He did not smile, though his expression was soft, his eyes kind. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a youthful looking face.

“What are you doing out here? Why do you keep bouncing your ball in front of my house.“

The boy shrugged.

“You are driving my parents crazy.”

”And you?”

There was a pause as she considered her answer. Her eyes refused to look at him as she gave it, though she longed to see his response. She had never suffered rejection and didn’t know if she could take it, but she had a feeling that she needn’t worry. He instilled in her that feeling. “Yea, I guess you could say that you’re driving me crazy, too.”

With that said she did look up. He wore a brilliant smile now, which she could not help returning. “Good, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said it as he turned to go.

”Hey!“ His still smiling face glanced back at her call. “Why don’t you try ringing the bell?”

The boy nodded and took off running down the street, the ball thumping expertly at his side.