They’d taken a room, pretended Ishram was just some weird tourist relative when he commented about flat TV screens being invented, and got a room for four people.

Two double bed in a small, stinky room.

Ishram remembered Motels. More or less.

He stood in front of the only window they had while Andrea and his parents prepared themselves to sleep. They’d been driving the whole night, until Andrea took his father’s place. They’d only stopped to eat, and finally, to rest properly.

“I don’t sleep,” Ishram cut short when Andrea complained Ishram was not sleeping with them.

It was half the truth. He did, indeed, sleep. He just couldn’t properly. His thoughts wouldn’t let him, and his dreams neither. Besides, he didn’t actually need to sleep in order to rest. He could just sit and wait the night out. He could meditate, he could read everything time allowed him before the break of day. He had other options, he didn’t need to sleep.

The family chose to hold their private discussion inside the bathroom. Too bad Ishram could still hear them as they shouted and calmed down and you can't wear it this long, mijo!

Ishram tuned out of it when it was clearly feeding their own anxieties and fears.

Andrea stopped asking question at some point, but his parents clearly weren’t done with him.

“You killed Seth.” Amanda—Andrea’s mother—asked with dry voice while Kibwe unloaded the luggages, and Andrea took a shower.

Ishram looked at her, but said nothing. She glared, a furious stillness settling on her features.

“You should be in prison.” Amanda’s tone was harsh and cut. It was clear from whom Andrea had taken.

Ishram wrinkled his nose in dismissal. “I’ve already been.” He shrugged.

Amanda left in silence, and now Ishram was sitting there, checking for any suspicious sound or movement. Eventually, Kibwe and Andrea drew the beds closer and used them to sleep together.

The night proceeded slowly, and Ishram savoured every bit of it. The quiet and the silence were nice, he always missed those the most. Constant background noises, as opposed to the quiet of his cage. The more he spent free and able to move, the more he grew aware of the deep-bone tiredness settling inside his soul—something that never quite left him.

He’d grown nostalgic of the night, of how the wind would sometimes blow through the branches, the window, and everything around him, of how the wooden boards would creak when the others walked outside his bedroom. He missed the smells. The colors. The little things he could never get enough of. He missed it all.

Now, freedom was just a countdown.

Kibwe’s phone was lying on the furniture under the window, staring at him with dreadful curiosity. Ishram had asked him to leave it there so he could use it while they slept. Ishram rose from his thoughts and gathered himself. He needed to know what had happened to the world during the years he’d been away.

He’d been checking the Internet, the Google (that’s how they called it), to read anything he could find. History, inventions, slangs. Anywhere and nowhere in specific. The clock on top of the screen almost tricked him into thinking he had a lot, only for hours to tick by as Ishram found himself dragged by links and more links. It was overwhelming, to be able to find so much information in just a matter of seconds.

Every now and then he’d look over to the sleeping family, curled up in cheap blankets and soft noises. They would groan and move, but they were still hugging and holding tight onto one another. Only once did Andrea woke with a startle, before nudging his father and hiding under his arm. Ishram could only imagine what kind of nightmare made him jolt.

It was three in the morning when Kibwe raised from under the bedsheets and left the room. The man was silent when he entered the bathroom. When he came back, he didn’t go to sleep. Instead, he joined Ishram by the cabinet.

Ishram still sat on it, his side against the window and his legs bent. He faked reading, painfully aware of his surroundings.

“Literature?” Kibwe asked, after he took a peek of what Ishram was reading.

Ishram nodded. “You don’t have to be nice,” he muttered instead.

Kibwe was silent for a long moment, before breathing in and exhaling a patient sigh. “I know, but it feels like my wife and my son already do that for me. Besides, you’re risking your life as well for us, aren’t you?”

Ishram made a non-committal sound. “Yeah,” he conceded. 

“Why?”

Ishram followed his gaze, stopped on the shape of Andrea’s body under the blankets. He wanted to laugh. Why was a harder question to answer than Kibwe thought. “Why not?”

Kibwe sighed. “You make trusting you... very hard.”

Ishram shrugged yet again. As self-sabotaging as it sounded, this was the best option. “Right, my fault. You should trust that I’ll protect you, not trust me specifically.”

“Why?”

Ishram grimaced. “Because.”

Kibwe hesitated. “You don’t want to answer.”

Ding ding ding, Ishram thought. “No.” He needed to change subject, right now. “You could always answer one for me,” he offered.

Kibwe looked at him with interest.

“Why is your son hurting himself?”

The surprise on Kibwe’s face was to be expected. “What?”

“He’s not breathing properly and has refused to remove whatever a binder is.”

“How- how did you hear-”

“Your wife wasn’t exactly keeping quiet,” Ishram dejected. Last thing he wanted was Kibwe thinking he spied on them.

Kibwe’s face dropped, something tired crawled its way up on his features until he had to sit in a chair. “He needs it. To feel like himself.” His stance became defensive, Ishram noticed distractedly.

Ishram wasn’t clearly following, because Kibwe shifted uncomfortably on his seat and averted his gaze. “This isn’t your business, Ishram. You should be asking him that.”

Ishram snorted. “But it is my business, if it gets in the way of me protecting him.”

Kibwe didn’t reply. So Ishram did what might be considered his Plan B; he used the Google.

After a brief research, it was a bit clearer what a binder was, and why it was employed. Ishram wanted to smack himself in the face, too. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s the big secret?”

Kibwe frowned. “Excuse you?”

“I said, is this about what pronouns your child wants to use?”

Kibwe puffed up. Like a puffer fish, Ishram’s mind helpfully supplied. “How dare you? Have you any idea how hard-”

Ishram rolled his eyes. “I’ve known a lot of people with two identities. I have more than one myself. I don’t care who he wishes to be, but I do care if he stays alive. And this? This is not worthy hurting for.”

Kibwe looked at him, then smiled. “It’s not just a piece of cloth. It’s his whole self.”

“But it is just a piece of cloth, Kibwe. A piece of cloth that’s hurting your son more than it’s helping him.”

“I know.”

“So I ask you, which one will it be? The cloth or your son? Do not make me do it, because protecting Andrea also includes protecting him from himself.”

Kibwe shook his head. Ishram knew he’d just put a heavy weight on his shoulders, but they had little time, and every second they waited could be fatal in the long run.

He offered the phone to Kibwe. “Come on.” He nudged it when Kibwe stared at it in confusion. “Show me something else about this stuff. I want to see how much more complicated humans made it.”

“What do you mean?”

Ishram laughed softly. “You think you folks invented everything? This is older than the world.”

Kibwe stuttered on the right words. “I- what?”

“You humans have the tendency to over-complicate things, but we don’t.” Ishram fidgeted with the phone as he spoke, fascinated by the complexity of such a small machine. “Though I understand why your kind needs distinction, we never did. It is but natural for us to grow tired of one shell. Eternity is boring, if you do not use it to yourself. If you worry I will disrespect your son’s choices, you can rest easy.”

Ishram raised his eyebrows, amused when Kibwe slumped back on his chair, as if Ishram had just relieved some of his worries. “I ca-” no. Ishram stuttered. “I can be empathetic, Kibwe.” Better. He almost bit his tongue for saying it out loud, the dreadful C-word.

Kibwe looked at Ishram as if he were a ghost. A faint smile caught the edges of his full lips as he exhaled a weak, “thank you.”

Ishram pointed out Kibwe, too, needed to take care of himself. To sleep, to which Kibwe laughed and agreed, before heading back to sleep.

“Goodnight, Ishram,” he whispered before turning away.

Ishram ignored the sting whatever fondness Kibwe threw into those words. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

[:::]

The night passed slowly. It was barely 5am when the phone did a weird thing. The article Ishram was reading disappeared and was swapped by a dark page, with Ross’ number on it and a two horizontal slides. Reply and reject on the screen.

Ishram looked at the family, still sleeping, and then stood up. He unplugged the phone from its charger and got out of the room. Outside was chill, a soft breeze ran through his hair as he leaned on the railing. He picked up the call, failing miserably the first two tries.

“Hey champ, how you holding up?” Ross’ voice was warm. She was smiling, Ishram could tell.

Ishram sighed. “As much as I have to,” he said.

A sigh. “You should rest. Like, actual rest. Fuck that ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ crap, just do it.”

Ishram shook his head. He snorted softly. “I’ll try, yeah,” he lied.

“Listen, as soon as you’re here, I’m gonna find you a nice room where to stay for a bunch of nights. But I need you here, together with your human buddy-jailer. So he can go through the drills and everything.” Some background noises broke the silence—fabric shifting, glass against glass, and then water flowing. “And I imagine you have questions.”

Ishram’s heart sank. He was glad he decided to lean on the railing, or he wouldn’t be standing right now. “You know I only have one.” He gripped the railing harder, but it felt like he couldn’t hold on properly no matter how hard he tried.

His whole body was tensed. Dread hung over him like a Damocles’ sword when Ross hesitated, held her breath. “Ishram-”

“Damn you, Ross. Just tell me!” Ishram snapped, the metal bent under his hold and he let go of it with a hiss. He straightened his back, took a breath in. Why was she waiting? What had happened when Shanti died? 

He needed to breathe. Cold chills ran through his spine. He closed his eyes.

“You should ask Amar,” Ross eventually said. “He should be the one to tell you.”

Ishram gasped for air. “He’s alive?” he whispered. He covered his face with his free hand, a curse hanging on the edge of his lips.

Ross was quiet for a moment, before speaking. “Yes? Yes, of course he’s alive. Why wouldn’t he?”

“How would I know, Ross? Do I look like I have a goddamn crystal ball in my hand?” Ishram gibed, breathless. He shut his mouth, forced himself to focus only on breathing. Ross waited for him, as she always did. Ishram cursed again. “I’m sorry.” His voice was dry, low. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, covering his mouth and closing his eyes.

“Don’t worry, man. I know. You’re gonna be alright. I gotcha,” Ross reassured. “I’ll see you in a few hours anyway, right? Right after lunch.”

Ishram nodded, although he knew he was more doing it for himself than Ross. His head was throbbing with both tension and relief. He was so tired. “Yeah.”

“Alright, I’ll hang up now.”

“Okay.” Ishram swallowed. “And, Ross?” He waited for her yes? before exhaling. “Thank you. For everything.”

A soft snort broke the silence. “Laaame.”

She hung up.

Ishram’s mouth curled up against his will. He lowered his head and rested his elbows on the railing, slumping between his shoulders. He ought to do something for Ross. He didn’t know where his sister found her, nor how she won Ross’ loyalty, but it happened and Ishram never got the chance to do anything. To say thank you.

“What are you doing?”

Andrea’s voice gave Ishram a full-body startle.

He turned, senses alerted, only to find the boy standing outside the door, a black sweatshirt and a cranky expression. His shoulder was uncovered, and Ishram could see the black tight cloth underneath with a faint outline. 

Andrea was looking ad Ishram, still untrusting, still hostile. “Ross called,” Ishram said.

“What’d she want?”

Ishram leaned against the railing with his back. “To chat. Time has passed for her, we’re friends,” he explained.

Andrea raised his eyebrow. “You didn’t look like you were chatting. Whatever that was, I’d say ‘upsetting’ would be more suitable,” he nagged.

“Okay?” Ishram raised an eyebrow. “So what?”

“So, is there a problem we should know about?”

Ishram shook his head. “Nothing that concerns you,” he cut short, shoulders rising. He knew avoiding Andrea’s question could only incite the boy to bite harder, but his mind was too scattered to focus on yet another thing.

“So you will just conveniently tell us what you think we need to know, but expect me to not be stupid-”

Ishram straightened and strode towards Andrea. “You don’t trust me. I get it,” he snapped with a hiss, voice low and cutting. “So let’s say you trust that thing on your wrist and understand one, simple, and clear concept.” 

Andrea stumbled backwards, fear replacing hostility when he saw Ishram raising his fist.

Andrea crossed his forearms in front of himself. “Stop!”

Ishram didn’t stop. He wanted to hurt. So he let himself sink into the rage and frustration, drew momentum from it. His fist drew a straight line, aimed to Andrea’s face.

A flash of light and Ishram’s fist connected. Pieces of a sphere interposed between him and Andrea, glowing faintly under his fingers and around it just enough to give the idea of a shape. Its colours were various, but all belonged to a shade of deep pink-purple shade. His finger-joints cracked.

It took Andrea a moment to realise nothing was coming, and open his eyes. Ishram kept pushing. If he stopped, the sphere would dissolve into nothingness, and Ishram needed Andrea to see it.

“I can’t hurt you. We have an agreement, and it is definitive,” Ishram growled, low and hoarse.

Andrea let his arms fall, his eyes ran at the part of the sphere Ishram was keeping up. Ishram could still see fear, together with confusion when Andrea brought his hand to the barrier and touched it.

Ishram let go and moved backwards. “Don’t test my patience. I won’t be repeating myself a third time,” he gurgled. His hand was throbbing, but he didn’t want to check for damage in front of Andrea. His eyes pointed at the sky. The dawn had long begun, and they had to move. “Time’s up. We need to go,” he declared.

Andrea didn’t answer. He just turned and went inside. Ishram waited for the family there, grabbing the luggages they took outside and loading the car. Whatever damage he may have done to Andrea’s trust, he was relieved Andrea stopped nagging at him for the rest of the trip.