The Weight of Our Sky(39)
“You did?” I just stand there, looking at him. My mouth is hanging open a little, and I’m aware that I look like a fool. But this is inconceivable. I may only have known Vince for a few days, but he has such set ideas of right and wrong that it actually shocks me to know he’s capable of outright theft.
“More like borrowing lah, really.”
“Vince.” I stare at him, and he sighs.
“I know, I know. But it was an emergency. I’m going to bring it back as soon as we’re done.” He reaches out and tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, I’m getting you home.”
“You didn’t happen to steal any helmets, did you?” I can’t help teasing him a little as we sling ourselves on.
“I’ll drive really carefully,” he tells me seriously.
It won’t help, the Djinn says quietly. As Vince guns the engine, I reach around with one arm to grab his waist, blushing in spite of myself. I am close enough to feel the heat emanating from him, close enough to breathe him in. One part of me carefully catalogs every minute detail of this: the way his hair curls up where it meets his shirt collar, the scent of him—fresh and clean, a mix of newly cut grass and lemony soap—the curve where his neck meets his shoulders. The other part of me pictures all the ways in which both of us will die on this journey.
With my other arm, I tap and tap and tap, counting in threes until the Djinn is satisfied.
? ? ?
We’ve been zooming along the near-empty roads for about fifteen minutes, past the leftover debris, the occasional body, the smoking husks of burning buildings, when I feel it: a movement, as if something is zipping past my right ear. As I turn my head to see what it is, I feel it again, just above my head this time. What is that?
One glance behind me reveals the answer: a group of guards, lounging against a car parked on the side of the street, one with his gun aimed right at us, casually sending shots ripping through the air toward us as if we’re nothing more than target practice.
I turn back to Vince. “They’re shooting at us!” I yell at him over the noise of the motorbike.
“What?!” He leans forward, driving even faster, and I hang on tight so I don’t get thrown off. The wind snatches the band from my hair so that it whips wildly into my face and his. The bike careens left and right as he tries to avoid the shots.
Eventually, he drives into an alleyway and brings the bike to a sputtering halt. “What is it? Why are we stopping?” I ask, desperate to put as much distance between us and our attackers as we can.
Then I notice it: One of the bullets has ripped through the flesh on his left arm, just below his shoulder. The blood flows freely, staining his pale blue shirt in splotches of bright crimson.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Yes, the Djinn says, baring his teeth in wicked glee.
I grab for Jay’s handkerchief into my pocket, folding it lengthwise with trembling hands. As I tie it tightly over the wound, the Djinn forces me to count a protective mantra in my head, tapping it in secret spots to make it safe as I can. Beads of sweat stand on Vince’s head, and he’s pale, but he doesn’t complain.
“Just need to catch my breath,” he says, smiling wanly at me as I force him to sit, his back against the wall.
“Okay,” I say, and we sit in silence for a while.
Then, suddenly, we both sit up straight.
“Did you hear that?” I ask him. He nods. “Shush.”
We’re both perfectly still, waiting, listening. Then it comes again: a low, soft moan.
“Someone’s hurt,” he says, immediately struggling to his feet. I leap up to help him, and we both edge slowly along the alley, looking left and right for more guards.
When it comes again, the moan is louder, intense and soaked with pain. “There it is again!”
I point to a nearby shophouse. “It’s coming from over there.”
As we make our way toward it, I scour its fa?ade for clues to what we might find inside. It doesn’t yield much: The sign above it, once a bright blue now faded with time and the elements, is painted with Chinese characters in white; below them, a line proclaims TEA SHOP. One window is smashed, and the metal shutter that covers the doors has been forced open a crack, though I can’t see anything beyond it other than darkness.
Vince goes first, pushing the shutters back farther to let us in, wincing at the pressure on his arm before cautiously stepping through. I follow him inside and immediately am engulfed in the musty scent of tea. On either side of us, floor-to-ceiling shelves are lined with jar after jar of leaves, each with labels I can’t quite make out in the light that filters in weakly from the windows.
“Hello?” Vince calls out. “Hello, anyone there?”
At first, there is just silence. Then, from inside, we hear it: a groan.
“It’s all right,” he says, walking in a little farther. “It’s all right. We’re here to help you. Are you hurt?”
Then we see her, hunkering down behind the counter: a young woman, alone and very, very pregnant.
We shoot glances at each other and hurry to kneel beside her. “Hello,” I say gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. She flinches at my touch, and looks at me warily. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “We just want to help you. You sound hurt. Are you?”
I can tell she’s trying to decide if she can trust us. Her eyes dart back and forth, first to Vince, then to me, then to Vince again. But before she can speak, another wave of pain hits and she squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lips to suppress a groan. Her hands spasm protectively over her belly.