Mehrul Bari

                                                                                                                        _︎

She had that dream again. She kidnapped children every night.

She parks her car in front of the steps. It’s a school. A bell rings. She waits for a child, and though he’s different every time—and sometimes he is a she—the day is forever the same.

A child walks out, on their lonesome, and presses a hand on the hood of her car. The child waves their hand gently on the surface. The hood is warm, but it’s cold outside.

“come in its warm here,” she says, her hand reaching out the window.

The child says something different every time. Last night, the child said, “i dont know miss its so terribly cold out here but i only live about a four minutes walk and besides miss youre running short of gas.”

“and how would you know that standing way over there?” she asked.

“i have a feel for these things,” the child replied.

She checked the meter. “clever little girl,” she said. The child had a gift. They all do.

She opens the car door and makes for the child. “i have a gift too just like you. i can read any old scribbling a doctor writes. you know those strange things the doctor writes? i can read em all.”

“thats swell miss,” the child says, walking backwards.

“come here you little bitch,” she says, and she takes the child by the shoulder, and they go together to the car.

The child sits in the backseat. A tan seatbelt bound around their waist.

They drive off together. The sky is the sky, but the city starts to recede to a barren place.

They do two things.

They make a stop at some point, utilizing whatever gift the child has. They stopped at a filling station last night.

And some point thereafter, she tells them her name—“im zarasha,” she said last night—to gain the child’s trust, but the child doesn’t say anything—not even to the gas attendant.

They drive around some more. The road stretches to deserts and joins the sky at the far end. The dream ends there.

The sun flares in her eye, or sometimes it’s her boyfriend. “Hey, baby,” he says.

“Hey, babe?” she said this morning. “Can I take the car?”

︎

She did it again. She drove to the front steps of a school, and the bell rang.

The car was stationary, but it shuddered up and down. She didn’t eye any child in particular. A few ringlets of sweat formed.

She was awake, she knew this.

A child walked out, on his lonesome.

She stayed in her car, hunched over, watching. The child had a heavy backpack. He carried it with his hands rather than his back.

Her window hung half open.

She watched the boy walk to the hood of her car. His eyes landed on hers. They watched each other through the windshield. She pressed a switch. The doors unlatched.

“Do you have something to say?” she asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Do you have anything to say?”

The boy shook his head.

“Is there something you can do?”

The woman opened the door and approached the child.

“Say something, you little shit,” she said, grabbing him by the back of his arm.

The boy stiffened his hold on his bag.

“Give me that,” she said, wrestling for the bag. She yanked it free and threw it into the passenger seat. “Get in,” she said, “come on.”

︎

They were driving along a long and uncomplicated road.

She stole glances at the rearview mirror. The boy looked out. He did not recognize the buildings and trees.

“You don’t know where we are, do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“So, you can talk?”

“Mm.”

“My name is Karisha,” she said. She stole another glance. “What’s yours?”

The boy drew a circle with his finger on the window. “Circle,” he said.

“Circle?” she said. “That’s a funny name. Are you a funny boy?”

“I’m a Circle,” he said. His eyes still searched the road.

“You don’t look like a Circle. Are you sure you’re not a Square?”

“Na,” he said, “I’m a Circle. Never a Square”

“Do your friends call you a Square?” she asked, turning her face to him, then back to the road.

“Yea.”

“They’re not your friends, then.”

“They’re not?” he asked, turning his head.

“No,” she replied, not looking back. “What’s in your bag? Why is it so heavy?”

“Books,” he said, “papers, tests, things.”

“Tests? How did you do?”

“Which one?”

“The one you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about it. I just can’t tell how I did.”

“You can’t tell?”

“Na. I don’t know what Mrs. Jensen wrote. Mrs. Jensen doesn’t grade our tests. She says they’re a bad habit. She writes what she thinks instead of grading us.”

“I agree with Mrs. Jensen,” she said. “Show me.”

The boy rummaged through his bag and reached over.

“Here,” he said, handing a piece of paper.

“This, huh?”

She kept one hand for the wheel and the other for the paper.

“They’re starting essay-writing this young?” she said. Her eyes scanned the top of the paper. She looked up at the road, then down again. “She says it’s good... with room for improvement... Says there’s inconsistency with grammar... Overall, good effort. She liked it.”

“What’s that? Insistency?”

“In-con-sistency,” she said. “Means you didn’t do it right.”

“Oh.”

She kept reading. The car slowed.

The boy wrote about a dream. He leaves school every day… He stops by a car near the driveway... A man comes out, or sometimes he’s a woman, and they talk... and they force him into the car... They drive off together.

“How’d you read what Mrs. Jensen wrote on my paper?” the boy asked. “No one in class can read ‘em. We just go home every day not knowing.”

She put down the piece of paper. “How long you been having this dream?”

“You read my essay?”

“I did.”

“I don’t know, it’s just been happening. You know?”

“I know,” she answered. “So, you’ve dreamt this then?”

“Yea.”

“Am I who you see?”

“No,” he answered, looking out. “Am I?”

“No,” she answered, driving.

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