BURIED UNDER LETTERS

BURIED UNDER LETTERS

BURIED UNDER LETTERS
BURIED UNDER LETTERS

Sajal Hossain Dhaly

Ishmael stood at the oblong-shaped window of his room that looked out over the red-tiled rooftops and bell towers of Beltham city. The bells rang every hour or so while the seagulls fluttered lazily over the foggy October horizon. The chill of fall had not quite settled in, but the pedestrians had dusted out their coats, wool hats, and umbrellas. In the streets, the people scurried here and there, everyone seemingly late for something. Everyone’s eyes were downcast; nobody made eye contact with passers-by, and everyone minded their own business. The stray animals of the streets started to hiss and recede into the dark corners, as the roads filled slowly with Beltham citizens. Another bell tower gonged in the distance.

Ishmael had made a habit of standing in that exact position every morning. It had been nearly a month since he realized he had the melancholia—a brain disease, or so the townsfolk said—and developed a propensity to observe the sun rising in the hush of the early hours. It was better than lying under his blanket, alone with his thoughts.

He liked the gentle sound of waves hitting the rocky foundation of the island. He enjoyed how the stillness was gradually disturbed and overtaken by the hundreds of footfalls and hums of conversation. More than this, he enjoyed the brief window of time when the bell towers would stop ringing; stop being the harbinger of death for a precious few hours.

Ishmael had lost his brother during one of these hours. Isaac had also the melancholia, but he opted for a quick escape—an undignified death—during the early hours of dawn. This time was outlawed for any sorts of death after the disease surfaced. A time the authorities deemed too sacred for this kind of activity. More importantly, Isaac hadn’t left a letter behind. In the current Beltham climate, these were the hallmarks of an undignified death, and this brought shame to Ishmael’s family.

The melancholia was endemic in Beltham. It strictly affected the male populace, primarily the youth. Some older people fell victim—though cases were rare, it was not without its casualties. Ishmael’s father had caught the disease after the birth of his daughter, the third and final child of the family, and promptly left the world in a dignified way.

After being afflicted with the disease, Ishmael couldn’t shake his intrusive thoughts. He found no joy in the things he loved to do, and had no appetite to speak of. He spent his days either with his school friends, or shut inside his room. With great difficulty he held out for a month, but in his state, he knew he didn’t have many days left.

He was waiting for paper. The way to escape an undignified death was to leave behind a letter—addressed to your family and loved ones. As the disease spread, paper became scarce in Beltham. Businessmen, intermediaries, and dealers saw the opportunity and jumped, creating a monopoly over the market and controlling the supply. Beltham did not manufacture any paper; the city did not manufacture much of anything other than people. And so its citizens relied increasingly on outside help.

The only means of contact the city had with the outside world was through a centuries-old rail line made by the first settlers of the island. Each week the train would blare its way into Beltham Station, miserly placed in the outermost edge of the city. The train brought over fruits and vegetables which the island could not grow and meats of animals they could not rear. The train would also bring a steady supply of paper. But that supply slowly dwindled. The senior citizens who sipped coffee at cafés the entire day speculated, quite daringly, that the authorities had a hand in this.

Last week the train did not carry any paper. The week before, all the paper sold out before Ishmael could buy any. The train conductor said—with much assuredness—that the last shipment of October would carry paper. Today was that day.

The train usually arrived sometime around 12 PM. From his room, Ishmael could see the train tracks in the far distance. He could faintly see the tracks skeeter away sinuously from the island, over the sea, far off into the foggy distance.

Though the train would not arrive this early, he knew that when it did, it would carry his salvation.

At 8 that morning, Ishmael went down for breakfast. His mother had already left for work, and his younger sister, Isabel, ignored him completely. There was a rumor that anyone could contract the disease just through interaction. Despite being a girl, who was not prone to the disease, Isabel kept her distance. Ishmael never said anything. He knew she was being smart. Other than breakfast, Ishmael never saw his sister.

After breakfast, Ishmael met his usual gang of friends near the school library stairwell. Beltham Academy school had been shut down by the authority for the past month, but they met there regardless. They were all dressed in the overcoats, hats, and loose trousers of their school uniform as well. They wore this to distinguish themselves from the impoverished youth of Beltham, the “street urchins.”

Among his school friends, Yousef had also contracted the disease. Yousef had grown restless over the last few months. He constantly talked about “taking the easy way out” and not having the strength to wait for the paper to arrive.

Besides Yousef, there was Moshid, Rasiv, and Zuber. Despite knowing that the melancholia is contagious, none of them ever expressed any concern. It seemed even that Yousef and Ishmael contracting it drew the group closer.

“Any news on the train?” Ishmael asked.

“Nothing new. It’s still slated to arrive at 12,” said Zuber, the youngest of the bunch.

Moshid walked up, the second oldest of the boys and the pseudo-leader, “Well, alright then, let’s get down to business.” He stood with his arms crossed. “What we need first is to decide whether we camp at the station, or at the stationary shop. Last time we stood in the shop’s queue and the paper ran out in 30 minutes.”

“Then what do you suggest, that we stand around the station like idiots?” Rasiv asked. The pseudo-leadership of the group was highly contested between him and Moshid.

“Did I say that?” Moshid retorted. “I said that it didn’t work last time. You become hard of hearing from all your wife’s nagging?”

Rasiv was the oldest of the group, and had already married. He had no siblings, his father died at the war, and his mother passed away two years ago. He loved a senior girl, and the couple got married so they could live together. “Just because we failed once, are we going to stop altogether?” Rasiv responded, keeping his calm.

Ishmael stepped in, before a full argument could break out, as they often do. “Why don’t we try both options? We spread out. A few of us stand in line at the shop, the rest go to the station and see if it’s possible to get any paper when they unload. If they fail, they can just run to the shop and join the others.” Everyone seemed to like the idea, nodding their heads.

“Fine, you heard the man,” Moshid said. “It’s almost time for the shop to open so we have to decide fast. Who goes where?”

︎

They drew straws, and the group was split into two. Rasiv, Yousef, and Ishmael drew station duty, while Moshid and Zuber drew shop duty. Ishmael was glad he drew station duty; he wanted to be there at the station as the paper entered the city. Even if they were unable to procure any, he wanted to be next to it, accompany it to the shop, never letting his eyes off the cartons.

Moshid and Rasiv debriefed the bunch on what to do. They also pressed upon them how to manage time. Simply standing near the shop and the station wasn’t going to be enough. They needed to be efficient, stay ahead of other people looking for paper. The stationary shop’s queue would only start after Herbert and his young apprentice, Hal opened the doors. Customers were not allowed to camp outside. They would have to hide out in the nearby alleyway and execute their timing. But that was the shop team’s duty.

The station boys didn’t need any special notice. They would simply observe the unloading of the cargo, and see if there was a chance to buy a sheet or two from the conductor. Rasiv by default became the leader of this group. Both he and Moshid had admitted that the two of them in one group would make the other less functional. A rare occurrence where both agreed.

It was a fifteen minute walk to the train station and when the station delegation arrived they found it fairly crowded. Granted, no one else was there for the paper like the boys, which they judged from the absence of youth in the crowd. So, they eased into position at a bench in the platform.

Rasiv sat on one side of the bench, while Ishmael and Yousef sat on the other.

“This long wait for the paper,” Yousef said to Ishmael, “the last few months, has given me a lot of time to think about.”

“About what you want to write in the letter?” Ishmael asked.

“About… the other things,” Yousef said. “It’s hard to keep going. It’s hard to get up this morning. My parents act as if I am already gone.” He paused, looking over to Ishmael. “Is it this bad for you?”

Ishmael didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say; Yousef had been contemplating an undignified death.

Yousef looked down. “Everything is… dour, isn’t it.” He reached into his pocket, and quickly glanced at the station to see if anyone was seeing. Yousef then took out his hand halfway. A silvery object gleamed in the weak sunlight from inside his pocket.

It was a gun.

Ishmael tried to hide the alarm in his face. “Yousef, where’d you get that?” he asked as his friend tucked the thing back inside. Yousef looked smug for a moment.

“It was my grandfather’s, probably. It was locked inside a cabinet for as long as I can remember. I’ve had it with me for weeks and no one’s found out yet. I think it won’t be missed.” The smugness was gone and a wave of listlessness replaced it.

“What are you planning to do with that?” Ishmael asked.

“Nothing if we get our hands on the paper today.”

“And what if we don’t?”

“Ishy,” Yousef said, “we don’t have to be subtle about this. Without paper, it doesn’t matter how we do it. It’ll be undignified all the same. Why go through a long and painful one when I can do it quick? I have made up my mind… It’s getting hard each day. I think today is the decider.”

︎

The train would arrive soon. Ishmael let the matter drop for now, trying his best to stay hopeful.

When it was five minutes to arrival, the 3 boys stood on the hardwood floor of the platform. The tracks began to rumble, heralding the oncoming train. In moments they saw it, rolling slowly into the station. The engine exhaled smoke and the horn blared. People and porters alike jumped to action, a rhythmic back and forth, with each person diligently carrying out their roles. Among this crowd, the trio spotted Herbert’s son, Hal, entering the fray with his double-wheeled cart.

They also noticed a large, bald man with him. His skin was bronze, and he was dressed in workman’s overalls. His muscles looked overworked, even as he stood there idly. The boys watched them from a distance.

When the conductor finally called Hal—“Halbert! Shipment Ethan Halbert!”—the boys saw a number of people perk up. They had not been the only ones after the paper after all. Hal went into one of the compartments and the boys approached furtively.

Rasiv asked the conductor, after he was done yelling out his orders, “How much paper arrived today, sir?”

“One carton,” said the conductor dismissively.

The boys’ hearts sank as they saw Hal wheel out the paper on his cart. Rasiv approached the boy, stopping him in his tracks. “Boy, mind if I buy a couple sheets of paper from you right here?” But before Hal could answer, the large bald headed man stepped in. “Scram, kid. These here are not for sale.”

Rasiv fell back stupidly at a loss of words. The man escorted Hal out of the platform and down the street toward Herbert’s shop. Rasiv looked over at the other boys and when he saw the defeated faces of Ishmael and Yousef he felt ashamed. What could he do though? The man was three times his size and twice his age.

“Well, we knew this would be a dud, that’s why we had a second plan. Let’s follow them to the store. Maybe the boys will have a good standing in the queue.”

“It’s only one cart, Rasiv,” said an utterly defeated Yousef.

“If Moshid and the others do their job, we’ll get it surely.”

Ishmael was cautiously optimistic and followed Rasiv.

The three soon caught up to Hal and his escort, who plodded through the half-busy streets of Beltham Square. At a juncture between two streets, the pair slid their cart into a darkened alleyway. The boys stayed back and peeked in from behind a vegetable stall. They couldn’t make out much, but they were certain the pair were still inside. The boys exchanged confused glances, and soon Hal walked out the alley, without the cart, carrying a bag in his arms.

“Did they just…?” asked Ishmael.

“Yes,” answered Rasiv.

“So, Herbert sells the paper off? But to whom? That big man?” asked Yousef, dumbfounded.

“We’ll find out,” said Rasiv.

The other three spoke out in protest, but Rasiv quieted them. “Moshid and Zuber are already stationed at the store; it doesn’t matter if we go or not. We can follow that man and see who Herbert is selling the paper to. Isn’t that better?”

Ishmael and Yousef once again exchanged glances and half-audibly agreed. The three then entered the alley, where they saw the bulky man trailing away through the other end. He pushed the cart in front of him easily with one hand.

The boys followed the man, step by step, and found themselves slowly walking toward the western shore of the island. And in around 30 minutes, found themselves leaving the mainland city altogether, walking onto the sandy shores of Beltham.

Finally, they saw a high-rising foundation of concrete, which ran across the entire island. The man slid the cart down a steep slope fit into the concrete and disappeared out of sight of the boys. They could see the sea in the distance crashing into the shoreline.

They approached the edge of the foundation and saw a fall of about 10 feet. Embedded into the stone foundation was a rusty steel door, almost hidden.

“This must be where Herbert stores away the excess paper,” Rasiv commented. “He probably doesn’t even sell them.”

“Why does he never bring them out, then?” Yousef asked. “I’ve never seen his paper magically restocked after it’s been finished,”

Rasiv shook his head. “Maybe he recently started? Then again, it looked like that man and Hal have been doing this for a while. It looked practiced. And this place doesn’t look unused either.” He thought for a moment more and carefully walked down the slope. Yousef and Ishmael followed. Rasiv cautiously held the door handle and pulled it. With a metallic clang, it opened.

Inside was a tunnelway, slowly giving way to a path that slanted downward. From the sunlight above, the boys could see that that’s all it did—continue down. The light showed no end. There were no steps, just an unending decline shrouded in darkness. The man was nowhere to be seen.

Ishmael decided that had been enough. “Okay we’ve seen enough. Let’s go back and see if Mos and others got the paper.” He pulled at Rasiv to back away. “We’ll report this to the authority later. Come on, let’s go.”

“Do you think reporting this is gonna get us any more paper?” Rasiv asked. Ishmael looked incredulous at the question. He opened his mouth to protest when Yousef chimed in.

“They won’t reward us with anything for reporting,” Yousef said. “I say we go inside and try to steal some paper. Perhaps we negotiate with the man to keep this a secret? Maybe even ask to pay extra for a pack. Or maybe we could… intimidate him.” He looked at Ishmael.

“Fine. We go down,” Rasiv said with conviction. “We try to get some paper. If there’s trouble we’ll just bolt out. Understood?” They both turned to Ishmael, the only one who needed convincing. He figured that the two would go on inside without him if he said no, so reluctantly he nodded.

Rasiv stepped inside the tunnel first and began descending down the slope, Yousef behind him. He gestured to Ishmael, the last to enter, to leave the door open for the light. After a minute of walking, the three found they had delved deep into the tunnel and that the sunlight could no longer reach them. However, when Ishmael looked up he could see the white light coming in from the doorframe. That compared to the blinding darkness beneath, he felt like the door was calling out to him. He ignored it.

A little later, and the three saw the tunnel had finally ended. And a little further was a double-door. Rasiv opened his mouth to verbalize something but the words never came; instead spittle and a grunt flew from his mouth as a gigantic fist landed on his face, knocking him off his feet immediately. The other two boys stopped in their tracks and a yelp escaped from Yousef. A light came on dimly to the left. Ishmael saw a hollow there, made to accommodate wirings and pipes. The light was screwed to the wall in a way that it could illuminate the double-doors. The bronze-skinned bald man emerged from the hollow.

“You trespass. This is private property,” the man said sternly, his accent thick.

Ishmael thought about running up the tunnel, but looked at Rasiv who was still on the ground, looking up at the brute. The large man, though, ignored Rasiv and walked slowly toward Ishmael and Yousef. Ishmael quickly realized that his intention was to trap all three, and deemed Rasiv already captured. Ishmael pulled at Yousef’s arm and dashed up the tunnel—or at least tried to—but stopped as Yousef’s hand pulled back. He turned to see that Yousef was eyeing the large man. The man’s shape shadowed Yousef’s features, so Ishmael could not see that it was not horror in his face, but determination. Someone with nothing to lose, overwhelmed for nearly a month with the most hopeless thoughts the human mind is capable of.

Ishmael pulled again and said, “Yousef, run! What are you doing?”

“What are you doing with all that paper down here?” Yousef asked the man, his voice echoing down the tunnel, ringing. His right hand was inside his coat pocket.

“Private property, therefore private business,” the man answered, matter of factly.

“Whose private property?” Yousef asked.

“Everett. Property of—” and right then, the man gasped as Rasiv jumped on the man’s back, holding his throat in a chokehold with his hands. The large man easily reached Rasiv with his large arms, but could not yet yank him off as Rasiv tightened the chokehold.

“Run! Get out of here!” Rasiv screamed.

“No!” Yousef screamed back.

And there was a bright flash of light and a loud bang that rang through the tunnel. Yousef had fired his gun. The sound reverberated in Ishmael’s ears as he looked on in awe. The flash of the nuzzle blinded him for a second. He heard a loud thud and when he opened his eyes, the large man was on his back. Rasiv fell under the man. The fall should have crushed him. Ishmael realized he was still holding Yousef’s arm as he fired the shot. Yousef’s arm was still poised with the gun in aim. Ishmael let go.

He ran over to the bundle of bodies and found the large man’s lifeless eyes staring vacantly at the roof of the tunnel. Ishmael tried to pull the man off and failed. “Help me!” he yelled to Yousef. This shook him from his trance and he slowly lowered the gun, approaching Ishmael. He stowed away the gun inside his pocket and helped push the man off Rasiv.

Miraculously the boy was still breathing, though it was shallow. They pulled him from under the large man and sat him down against the side of the tunnel under the light. The bullet had entered the large man and escaped behind his back to enter Rasiv. Rasiv gasped for breath as he pressed on the wound.

“Go… Down there, and get the paper. If there’s anyone… you still have that,” he pointed at Yousef’s hand, though the gun was already pocketed. “But don’t shoot. Just threaten.” Rasiv struggled for breath as blood dripped from Rasiv’s mouth. “Keys… I heard them rattle.”

Ishmael fished through the large man’s pockets and pulled out a large ring of keys. “You stay right here,” Ishmael told Yousef. “I’ll get paper and we’ll get out of here. Stay here. Look after him.”

Yousef did not respond. “No,” he said, a little louder than he wanted to, judging from the way he winced right after. He looked way too excited and he was barely able to conceal it. He did not care much that his shot had wounded Rasiv. “I want to see what’s inside.”

Ishmael didn’t want to argue.

The two walked to the double doors, lit by the light from the hollow. Ishmael took out the keys, but found that the door wasn’t locked. The bronze man had already deposited the carton inside before learning of the group’s trespassing. The room was nearly 20 feet long. In every direction Ishmael looked, he saw shelves upon shelves, filled up with boxes and cartons, presumably of paper. A rank odor permeated the room.

“So this is all… what, some Everett’s?” Ishmael asked, but Yousef grunted apathetically. The floor inside was different from outside the threshold, a different concrete, and among the tiles, vegetation grew. The stench seemed to be that of the overgrowth themselves. Weird for an island that had little to no trees.

The two wondrously and wordlessly wandered the room. What the room lacked in width was made up in length. Every shelf touched the bare-concrete-ceiling of the room. He could also see the mossy wall through the shelves. Each shelf housed more than several hundred cartons. Ishmael wanted to be sure that it was really paper and looked into a carton—and it was. It was real, white, pristine, untouched paper, wrapped in a plastic covering. So coveted, yet hidden away inside this tunnel, for who knows what reason.

“Why do you think this Everett is doing this?” Ishmael asked, surprised by how loud the echo made his voice sound.

“Beats me. Who even is Everett?” Yousef asked.

“I think he owns the oil reserves of the island. I’ve heard his name. Michael Everett.”

“Why would an oil baron need this much paper?” Yousef asked.

“I don’t know. And it doesn’t look like he needs the paper. The real question is why is he keeping it stored away? Why has he never looked to sell them?” Ishmael roamed around the room, going shelf to shelf, inspecting the crates, looking at the clipboards on each shelf. They contained dates and numbers. Records of the cartons. Every shelf was protected by a steel netted mesh and locked with a padlock.

“Perhaps he has a deal with Herbert to lock away paper in order to create demand,” Yousef said.

“No,” Ishmael said. “Then we would see Herbert restocking every now and again without shipments from the train. Besides, these days Herbert turns away eight out of every ten customers looking for paper. I don’t think we’ll find the answer here.” He stopped in front of a shelf. “I don’t think we need answers.”

The padlock on this one looked new. He tried the freshest looking keys from the key ring, one after another. And after a few unsuccessful attempts, Yousef walked up.

“Let me,” he said and showed Ishmael the gun.

“Are you sure that’s a—”

“We don’t have time.”

“Make sure you don’t get hurt,” Ishmael cautioned, which Yousef didn’t seem to heed. He stood near the lock—too near—and aimed the gun. Before Ishmael could say something or step back Yousef pulled the trigger. The dim room lit up for a split second, as if a sun exploded, and a loud bang once again followed. This time however, there was no ringing. There was no sound at all. Ishmael looked at Yousef who covered his ears, the gun still in his hand, and Ishmael realized he was doing the same. He lowered his hands but it made no change. There was still no sound. Yousef looked at him and said something, but he could only see his mouthing. When Ishmael talked, he realized Yousef was unable to hear him, and that he was unable to hear himself.

But Ishmael didn’t want to dwell. He saw that the lock had come off and so he opened the shelf’s netted gate and grabbed a carton. Only then, when a full crate was in his hands, did he realize that they would never be able to leave this place with an entire crate; it was too heavy for two people, and two large to carry into town inconspicuously. He set it down on the floor and tried to instruct Yousef… something. What would he instruct the other boy to do if he was not being heard. So he just tore open the carton and grabbed two bundles of paper wrapped in transparent plastic. He gave one bundle to Yousef.

The boys left the room, leaving it disturbed and intruded. When there would be a dead body at the door, there was no point in trying to hide the evidence of theft.

When they got back to Rasiv they found a pool of blood under him. The burly man’s body was how they had left it, lying in a puddle of his own. Rasiv was still breathing, but Yousef and Ishmael could not hear it. They stooped to Rasiv and said they had gotten the paper, both at the same time and both very loud. They continued to explain how they were going to take Rasiv to the hospital. Rasiv was unresponsive. Yousef and Ishmael carried him on each of their shoulders and along with the bundles in their free hands.

As they climbed upward, Rasiv nudged at the boys a number of times, at which Ishmael said loudly, “Just a bit more, Rasiv. I can see the door. We’re almost there.” Rasiv continued to nudge and the boys continued to ignore. When they finally reached the top and got out through the door they set Rasiv down. Only then did they see, in the sunlight, how terrible the boy looked. He would not make it.

Ishmael fell to despair, pleading with Rasiv to hold on. Yousef was clueless for a moment, in his deaf state. When it finally registered, Yousef, too, fell to the ground and cried. Rasiv continued his labored breathing and mouthed something neither of them could understand. They looked at each other in confusion. They didn’t know what to do. After a few more minutes of agony, Rasiv finally stopped breathing, and his glazed eyes stopped looking and his head stooped between his shoulders.

Neither Yousef nor Ishmael could tell what Rasiv’s final words had been. It had probably been something about his wife, Nadia, though the two couldn’t say for sure.

The boys sat beside Rasiv’s body for a while, as the late October wind blowing from the sea turned Rasiv’s cold body colder. There were only the sounds of stillness and waves crashing when eventually their hearing returned.

“We have to throw the body into the water,” Ishmael broke the silence.

Yousef nodded his head in agreement.

Had he realized it was his gunshot that killed Rasiv? Was the reality of it finally settling?

The two struggled to carry Rasiv’s body to the shore where they heaved it across to the water. The body splashed, reddening the water in that spot immediately, and the waves slowly but surely carried it away.

“Nobody can know this happened. Maybe Moshid and the rest, but nobody else,” Ishmael said.

“What about Nadia?” Yousef asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know.” Ishmael looked at the packets of plastic containing the paper. Rasiv’s blood when they were carrying him on their shoulders had seeped over onto the packets. The red on the bright white paper glistened there on the shore.

“Honestly, Yousef… We won’t be here for the aftermath.”

“Hmm,” Yousef intoned.

“We can’t carry it like this. We need to get rid of the plastic,” Ishmael said. They stripped off the plastic packets of both bundles and tossed them aside. The wrappers flew off down the tunnel. The blood somehow made it into both packets, and a few drops of blood had stained the paper inside. Ishmael took off his coat and wrapped both bundles in it.

The boys then walked back to the town square, to possibly rendezvous with the rest of the boys, though inwardly, Ishmael wished he wouldn’t ever have to meet them. He hoped he wouldn’t have to look Moshid in the eye and tell him what happened to Rasiv. He hoped he wouldn’t be around when Nadia learned what happened. He wanted to keep a piece for himself and leave the rest for the boys. He wanted to go home, write his letter, and be done with it.

His thoughts turned darker by the minute. At one moment Ishmael wondered whether the melancholia had anything to do with it. He wondered how it would feel to lose a friend if he was not afflicted with the disease. He was too young when his father passed. His brother passed in an undignified way, and so he wasn’t mourned by anyone. Ishmael had never experienced grief before, and now he wondered just how much worse the melancholia made it.

Drowned in his thoughts, Ishmael forgot where he was, where he was going. He realized he had led them into an alley. But no. There was no “them.” When he looked around, Yousef was not there. From where he entered the alley, a figure emerged. A tall man, with a hawk face and a hook shaped nose, stood at the entrance, the setting sun behind him casting a long shadow on the ground before him.

From the other end, two more figures entered. Ishmael could see their faces. They both looked like street urchins. He clutched the coat bundled under his arm, knowing what this was.

But where was Yousef? What had happened to him?

“Looking for this?” a high-pitched voice asked. It was the hawk faced man. Another figure stepped forward beside him, this one large and pudgy. He dragged Yousef with him. One fat arm holding the boy’s mouth shut, and the other pointing a knife to his face.

“We know where you come from, little one,” the hawk faced man continued. “Give us all you carry, and we let go of your little friend.”

The pudgy man looked at the hawk faced man angrily. “You promised we would jump them and take the paper.”

“I know darling. But the paper will feed us for months. It can even buy us a ticket out of this shithole,” the hawk faced man said. A small fight between the hawk faced man and the pudgy man began. This gave Ishmael to assess the situation.

The paper was going to give both him and Yousef a way out, finally. A dignified death. Something they had been coveting. But not giving the paper would yield a similar result. Being murdered in cold blood counted as a dignified death as well, since the deceased person has no say in it. The dilemma drowned out the two men’s argument for Ishmael, and in that focus, he realized something else. The hawk faced man said that they could use the paper to leave the city. Was it really that expensive? The paper was sold for very cheap. The price was never an issue, it was always the demand. How much were they going to make from selling two bundles of paper? Or did they overestimate how much paper the boys had?

“Why do you want the paper?” asked Ishmael. This stopped the men’s bickering and they regarded the boy.

“Foolish boy, why do robbers rob? Because it’s easy that way. Easier than earning it yourself.”

“You saw us with the paper. Means you know where we got this from,”said Ishmael.

“Of course, we know, foolish boy. You stole from Michael Everett. You are children, so it makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“That you would steal from him. You have no idea who he is, do you? That’s what happens when kids don’t go to school, see Dalton?” he asked one of the street urchins behind Ishmael. “This one sounds just like you, though he is dressed in school garb.”

“Isn’t Everett just an oil baron? What else does he run?”

“Everything, boy,” he said.

Ishmael was still confused. “How much are you going to sell this paper for?”

“Ah, silly boy. If you wish to know that bad, I’ll indulge you.” He walked into the alley, the fat man stood behind. “But first give me the paper.”

“No, tell me first. I don’t mean to die for the paper. But I want to know first.”

“You stealing the paper means you don’t have much time. So why do you care to know?” The man paused, then added, “Fine. I can tell you; you’ll be gone anyway. The paper is like a black currency. It’s not just Beltham that is starving for paper—it’s the rest of the world. The planet is dying, the trees are dying. They can’t make paper.” The man stopped, as if that explained everything.

Ishmael waited a moment before realizing that was all he would get.

“Okay. Let my friend go. Clear a path out of the alley.”

“Do as he says,” the hawk faced man said to his goons. And the street urchins disappeared. “Also, boy, no funny business. Our legs are twice the size of yours.”

The pudgy man then let go of Yousef, who scrambled towards Ishmael. His face was wet from tears. Ishmael threw both bundles to the hawk faced man. He then noticed Yousef eyeing his trouser pocket—the gun.

“No, Yousef,” Ishmael warned, his voice resolute. “It’s not worth it.”

Yousef relaxed. Ishmael dissuading him once was all he needed to stop. He would no longer try to fight against what happened to him against his will.

The hawk faced man grabbed both bundles and hefted them. Chuckling, he hit the pudgy man on the shoulder and they stalked away from the mouth of the alley, talking among themselves. Their shadows receded.

Ishmael and Yousef didn’t see the point of leaving the alley anymore, and the two of them sat at a corner for some time. It was dark. Both needed the paper. The paper was the cure for their diseases. Ishmael sat with his shoulders slumped and head between his knees. There was no escaping this. They would have to go out the coward’s way, no letter and no dignity. He could not wait another week for the train. He looked at Yousef, who looked utterly devastated. But his hand still laid on the bulge of his pocket where the gun had been.

“You okay? We should head back and find the others,” Ishmael said. “Maybe they were even able to buy the paper…” he trailed off, realizing how stupid that sounded. “Either way, the others will be worried about us. There’s also the matter about Rasiv.” Yousef did not move.

“Okay, I thought to tell you later. But… I was able to save this at least.” He pulled out a single piece of paper from his trousers, neatly folded. This too was bloodstained by Rasiv.

Yousef looked up finally and eyed the folded paper intently. Ishmael undid the fold and held it up in the moonlight.

“Worst case scenario, we can share this. We write our letters on each side.” Ishmael felt a little hope creep up within him as the words flew out of his mouth. Yousef stood up abruptly.

“Give it to me,” he said sternly, hand still over his pocket.

“Yousef, what— It’s ours. You don’t have to be—”

“I said give me the paper. I want the entire paper. I’m not sharing.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Yousef, I fished this paper earlier. I thought to slip this inside Rasiv’s pocket, before knowing that we had to drown it.”

“I don’t care. I lost so much today. I deserve the paper for it.”

Ishmael looked in disbelief. Yousef had been contemplating doing it without a letter and using a gun. Why did he want the entire paper now? Why did he want to rob Ishmael?

“No,” Ishmael said flatly, matching his friend’s glare.

Yousef brought out the gun and pointed it toward Ishmael, not really aiming.

“You’re going to use that on me? Killing Rasiv wasn’t enough?” Ishmael said.

“You bastard! You let those men rob us! You ruined us! You ruined me!” Yousef now aimed the gun.

Ishmael saw the hesitation within him and used his position from below; he shoved him as hard as he could. Yousef could not react quickly enough and the gun went flying from his hand. The two then struggled on the ground, grunting and heaving with punches. Yousef managed to push Ishmael off, but in the process, threw him near where the gun had fallen, and Ishmael grabbed it without thinking.

Yousef immediately stopped moving. Ishmael held the gun at him, but before his friend could protest or negotiate, Ishmael pulled the trigger. The gunshot hit Yousef’s head, mangling it. The alleyway rang out loudly from the bang. And once again, the nuzzle flash blinded Ishmael for a second. He stood dumbfounded, gun in his hand. Yousef’s face was unrecognizable. When he finally came to his senses, he threw the gun on top of Yousef and fled the alley.

That night, Ishmael cringed through the shadows, hiding from the sight of people, and even the stray animals. He thought that if he was even seen or regarded by another living thing, he was going to collapse right there. He felt that the wrath of God was coming for him, ready to immolate him where he stood, so he continued on in the darkness.

At midnight, he sneakily climbed up the side of his house and got into his room through the open window. With a quill dipped in ink, he hastily wrote out a letter on the piece of paper he protected from Yousef. Ishmael then brought out a length of rope he had procured a few days earlier from under his bed. He placed the stool of his reading table on top of his bed and climbed it. Ishmael made a noose from the piece of rope and put it over his head.

The next morning Ishmael’s body was found hanging from his ceiling fan. He was still clad in his school uniform. Inside the breast pocket of his coat was a bloodstained letter. The contents contained only three hastily written words—“Dear God, sorry.”

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