The Weight of Our Sky(41)

Vince is looking at me. “Di mana bumi dipijak . . . ,” he says slowly.

“Huh?”

“We have to hold up their sky, Mel. Play by their rules.”

I stare at him, openmouthed. “Are you serious? These are the guys who tried to shoot us!”

“Because they thought we were both Chinese. But you aren’t. You’re Malay; you’re one of them.”

“I am NOT one of them!”

“As far as they know, you are. They’ll help you. They’ll help you get her to the hospital.”

I shake my head. “No. They’ll never let you come with me. We’ll be separated.”

“I’ll follow on the bike. I’ll meet you there.”

My eyes are filling with tears, and I blink them back angrily. Being apart means I won’t be able to keep him safe. Being apart means never knowing what dangers could befall him.

Being apart means being alone.

The woman groans, biting her bottom lip so hard that she draws blood. My fingers spasm against my thighs, begging to tap out these anxieties, one by one.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I whisper. “They’ll die, and this time you won’t be able to say it isn’t my fault, because it will be, one hundred percent, my fault.”

Vince exhales noisily, and I can sense his frustration. I can even understand it. I’m frustrated with me too. “Everybody dies, Mel,” he says. “The only real question is when. The truth is that she may die if we stay here and do nothing, or she may live. She may die on the way to the hospital, if we find a way to get her there—or she may live. She may make it to the hospital and die anyway. Or she may live. It’s a game of chance, or destiny, or God’s plan—whichever you believe.” He glances at the woman as she pants, trying hard to control her pain. “At least if we try to get her to the hospital, we know she’ll be with people who know what they’re doing. If we’re her only chance of making it there, why not tip those odds a little more in her favor?”

You’re going to get them all killed, that familiar rasping voice says, and suddenly, I am filled with white-hot rage. I am tired of being the Djinn’s plaything. I am tired of the constant tapping and counting, tired of my brain never stopping, never staying still.

Shut up, I think. You’re not me. You don’t know what I can or can’t do. You don’t get to decide.

I look at Vincent and nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Deep breath, Melati. Let’s go.

? ? ?

The guards are standing around a car just a little way down the road when I emerge from our hiding place, smoking and chatting like it’s Sunday morning at the neighborhood kopitiam. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts over to where I stand, bathed in sweat and trying to suppress the urge to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

“Assalamualaikum!” I try to greet them as loudly as I can, but the Djinn reaches up to my throat and squeezes so nothing comes up but a cracked whisper.

Damn it.

I clear my throat and try again. “Assalamualaikum!”

You know the plan, Melati. Just follow the plan. The Muslim greeting will identify you immediately as being as Not Chinese as they come, so they’ll want to help you. Plus—and this is pretty important—it’ll make them maybe not want to shoot you on sight. Which is a bonus.

Trust my stupid broken brain to bring up their guns at a time like this. My head is throbbing and my teeth itch and I’m aching to count something, anything. Quickly, I tap my right index finger on my left wrist—Vince says I have to keep my hands visible so they don’t think I’m concealing any weapons.

Again, Melati.

“Assalamualaikum!” I’m practically roaring it down the streets at this point, and it is a relief when one of the guards finally turns toward me, frowning as he tries to locate the source of the commotion.

Showtime.

“Tolong! Help!” I yell, waving my arms as I jog toward them. “Help me! Please!”

Now all four of them are looking at me, and one of them straightens up, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his feet.

“What is it?” he growls, keeping his hand on the rifle slung over his shoulder. “Little girls shouldn’t be out and about at a time like this.”

“Especially not when they’re disturbing the peace,” drawls another, before taking a drag of his cigarette. I can feel his eyes traveling up and down my body, lingering insolently in select spots, and feel the bile rise to my throat.

Now I’m more pissed off than ever.

“I’m sixteen, thank you,” I say, setting my chin and addressing my remarks entirely to the first soldier. “And I came to you because I need help. That is what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Help the people?”

The first soldier grunts in response, and I take that as a sign to continue. “There’s a woman in that building over there, and she’s pregnant, and I think she’s about to give birth,” I say. “She’s in a lot of pain. She needs to get to a hospital.” My eyes keep flitting over to their guns, and I can’t help wondering which one launched the bullet that tore a bloody path through Vincent’s arm. Focus, Melati.

“Sounds like a real problem,” the second soldier says. He hasn’t stopped staring at me. “What do we get in return for helping you?” His tone is perfectly pleasant, his grin wide and leering. I want to take the knife from his holster and slash it from his face.