Rushil doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “You’re being weird again.” A word I picked up from him.
“I know. If I promise to stop being weird as soon as we get out of here, will you stop telling me that?”
“Maybe,” I say.
We stop in front of a gate painted with an interlocking diamond pattern.
Rushil looks up at one of the black spheres mounted on top of the wall. “Pankaj!” He waves. “It’s Rushil Vaish.”
Nothing happens.
“Maybe he’s out working?” I look over my shoulder.
“More like he’s still asleep. Pankaj!” He waves at the spheres again. “Come on, man, I know you can hear me. Open up. I’ve got some business for you.”
A buzzer sounds, then a metallic shriek, and the gate slides open enough for us to pass through single file.
Pankaj’s yard makes Rushil’s look like a neat-raveled piece of work. Tiny plastic bags and other bits of trash litter the tract of mud separating the cinderblock house from the fence. Weeds sprout here and there, partially hiding broken glass bottles and scraps of cellophane. The windows have been boarded shut, and a two-wheeled groundcrawler leans against the side of the house, bulging with fuel tanks and a chrome-plated engine. I haven’t seen anything like it since Mirny. I didn’t think they had them here.
Rushil cuts his eyes to the groundcrawler as we pass it. “We didn’t see that.”
“Right so,” I agree.
The door swings open. “Rushil Vaish.” A wiry man a few turns older than Rushil slouches against the doorway. “I thought we were never going to see you again.”
“Pankaj,” Rushil says.
“What’s this?” Pankaj looks me over. “A peace offering?”
Rushil’s jaw tightens. “A customer.”
Pankaj holds up his hands. “All right, all right. Can’t blame a man for asking. What do you need, chikni?”
I glance at Rushil, suddenly nervous. “An ID tag. For work.”
Pankaj looks to Rushil, too. “Why doesn’t she just work off the books?”
“She’s not doing that.”
“I hope you’ve got full pockets, then, chikni.” Pankaj turns back to me. “Seventy-five for the basic tag, two-fifty for the works—database trail, ghost records, the lot.”
“Two hundred and fifty?” I feel ill. How deep am I going to fall in debt? Waiting for my ship docking payment is one thing, but this is real money.
Rushil touches my arm. I jerk away before I realize he only means to calm me, the way I used to calm Lifil or the goats by laying a hand on their backs.
“Just the basic tag,” he says. “Enough to get her past the employment screeners.”
“Rushil—” I protest. He has to know I don’t have the money.
Pankaj shrugs. “Let’s see some plastic.”
Rushil reaches inside his shoe and pulls out a square of pay plastic. Pankaj takes it, taps it against the screen of his handheld, and eyes Rushil. “The straight and narrow’s been good to you, huh?”
Rushil shifts uncomfortably. “I get by.”
A crooked grin breaks out over Pankaj’s face. “Where are my manners?” He steps back into the shadowed entrance and holds the door for us. “Step into my laboratory.”
The room is cold, so cold I almost think my breath will smoke. Cables hang low from the ceiling, and a jumble of machines covering two rows of tables cast a chilly blue-green light into the darkness.
Pankaj snaps on a light aimed at a blank blue wall. “Over here.”
I stand where he points. The glare half blinds me, but I make out the image of Pankaj raising his handheld.
“You know, I could make you a deal for the full treatment,” Pankaj says over his shoulder to Rushil. “If you were up for a barter arrangement.”
The strain in Rushil’s voice is clear from across the room. “What kind?”
“Nothing much. Just some courier work.” Pankaj looks back at me. “Stand still, chikni.” His handheld gives a polite beep.
Rushil stays quiet for a moment. “No,” he finally says. “Not interested.”
Pankaj sighs and shakes his head. “Your loss.” He switches off the light, and for a moment, ghosts of the bulb linger in front of my eyes. “You’re done, chikni.”
I step away from the wall, closer to Rushil, so my shoulder lines up with his. I glance at the door, and we exchange a look.
“What now?” I say.
Pankaj cracks his knuckles. “Now you wait while I do my magic.”
Rushil and I wait outside in the trash-strewn yard.
“You didn’t have to do this for me,” I say. “That’s a lot of money, Rushil.”
Rushil shrugs. “It’s not like I got you the works.”
“Still . . . ,” I say.
“I know you’ll pay me back.” He flashes a smile at me, quick and tight. “You’re good for it.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know?”
“I just do,” he says.
“How?”
He kicks a plastic bottle into the weeds. “Miyole.”
“Miyole?” I blink. “What does she have to do with it?”
“You watch out for her.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks away. “You don’t give up on her. So I know you’ll follow through.”
I laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. “Of course I watch out for her. What else am I supposed to do? Drop her all alone in some place like this?” I fall silent, realizing what I’ve said.
Rushil stares at me as if I’ve hit him with an electric current. For a time, we don’t say anything. He paces the yard, kicking Pankaj’s trash back and forth.
Stupid, stupid, Ava. Poking my finger in the wounds of the one person trying to help me. I stare straight ahead at Pankaj’s fence. The jagged diamond shapes have been painted there, too, flanked by two tigers rearing up on their hind legs.
“What is that anyway?” I say without thinking.
Rushil stops. “What?”
“Those lines.” I point. “The diamonds. I see them everywhere.”
“It’s an M and a W.” He traces the letters. “See, they’re laid on top of each other.”
I cock my head. Now that he’s pointed them out, I see each one, but I don’t know how I could have figured it otherwise.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“Marathi Wailers.” Rushil glares at Pankaj’s closed door. “He’s one of them.”
“And that’s bad?” I guess.
Pankaj’s door swings open, cutting off his answer.
“Hot, hot indentity fraud.” Pankaj tosses the tag to me. “There you go, chikni. As long as your screener’s a little sloppy, that should work. Come back anytime.”