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“Two thou--” he began. His lower lip was quivering a little. Later, when he pulled away from the curb, he honked twice and waved. I waved back. I never saw him again.
I returned to the hotel room and found Sohrab lying on the bed, curled up in a big C. His eyes were closed but I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping. He had shut off the television. I sat on my bed and grimaced with pain, wiped the cool sweat off my brow. I wondered how much longer it would hurt to get up, sit down, roll over in bed. I wondered when I’d be able to eat solid food. I wondered what I’d do with the wounded little boy lying on the bed, though a part of me already knew.
There was a carafe of water on the dresser. I poured a glass and took two of Armand’s pain pills. The water was warm and bitter. I pulled the curtains, eased myself back on the bed, and lay down. I thought my chest would rip open. When the pain dropped a notch and I could breathe again, I pulled the blanket to my chest and waited for Armand’s pills to work.
WHEN I WOKE UP, the room was darker. The slice of sky peeking between the curtains was the purple of twilight turning into night. The sheets were soaked and my head pounded. I’d been dreaming again, but I couldn’t remember what it had been about. My heart gave a sick lurch when I looked to Sohrab’s bed and found it empty I called his name. The sound of my voice startled me. It was disorienting, sitting in a dark hotel room, thousands of miles from home, my body broken, calling the name of a boy I’d only met a few days ago. I called his name again and heard nothing. I struggled out of bed, checked the bathroom, looked in the narrow hallway outside the room. He was gone.
I locked the door and hobbled to the manager’s office in the lobby, one hand clutching the rail along the walkway for support. There was a fake, dusty palm tree in the corner of the lobby and flying pink flamingos on the wallpaper. I found the hotel manager reading a newspaper behind the Formica-topped check-in counter. I described Sohrab to him, asked if he’d seen him. He put down his paper and took off his reading glasses. He had greasy hair and a square-shaped little mustache speckled with gray. He smelled vaguely of some tropical fruit I couldn’t quite recognize.
“Boys, they like to run around,” he said, sighing. “I have three of them. All day they are running around, troubling their mother.” He fanned his face with the newspaper, staring at my jaws.
“I don’t think he’s out running around,” I said. “And we’re not from here. I’m afraid he might get lost.”He bobbed his head from side to side. “Then you should have kept an eye on the boy, mister.”
“I know,” I said. “But I fell asleep and when I woke up, he was gone.”
“Boys must be tended to, you know.”
“Yes,” I said, my pulse quickening. How could he be so oblivious to my apprehension? He shifted the newspaper to his other hand, resumed the fanning. “They want bicycles now”
“Who?”
“My boys,” he said. “They’re saying, ‘Daddy, Daddy, please buy us bicycles and we’ll not trouble you. Please, Daddy!” He gave a short laugh through his nose. “Bicycles. Their mother will kill me, I swear to you.”
I imagined Sohrab lying in a ditch. Or in the trunk of some car, bound and gagged. I didn’t want his blood on my hands. Not his too. “Please...” I said. I squinted. Read his name tag on the lapel of his short-sleeve blue cotton shirt. “Mr. Fayyaz, have you seen him?”
“The boy?”
n. 胡子，髭
