But that was a different Saleem. That was a boy who had a mother and father to go home to. That was a boy whose belly was full of his mother’s cooking and new sneakers on his feet. That boy wasn’t here.
The boy who ran from the truckers was hungry and alone and had only the strength required to hunch over tomato vines or rake animal shit with someone standing over his shoulder.
This Saleem was much easier to catch.
They grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. His feet, still trying to propel forward, flew into the air as he was thrown to the ground. His face hit blacktop, and searing pain ripped through his jaw.
The rest Saleem would remember only in bits and pieces, in souvenirs left on his body by those men who were tired of being used by refugees and tired of having their trucks checked and rechecked by customs agents. Brown boots and angry words.
He had tried to get back on his feet. He staggered.
One burst of adrenaline.
Run.
They yelled behind him.
Their voices faded as Saleem managed to put some distance between them.
His backpack slapped against his chest violently. He leaned against a brick building, out of sight. The adrenaline gone, he began to feel again. His ribs throbbed, and his legs felt as if they might buckle. His shirt was torn and pants covered in dirt. His pulse pounded in his ears, not loud enough to drown the sound of their shouts.
His lip was bleeding. Saleem wandered in and out of narrow side streets, staying away from pedestrians. He wanted to be invisible.
Saleem stumbled into a vacant warehouse and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He crouched against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hurt.
Please, God, let me rest here.
He was broken and did not know how much more he could take.
CHAPTER 38
Saleem
FOR TWO DAYS, SALEEM MOSTLY SLEPT. HE’D LOST TRACK OF DAY and night. Every time he started to wake, his mind coaxed him back, unable to muster the strength to face a new day and ignoring his hunger.
On the third day, his stomach argued for food, unsatisfied by the half bottle of juice he’d dug out of his backpack. He touched his lip and knew the swelling had improved. He could move about, not as sore as he had been. He changed his clothes and stood. His head spun.
He’d miscalculated. He didn’t know enough about trucks or their bodies and his ignorance had set him back. He felt like a failure.
Saleem wandered outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He walked down into the market and bought a twist of bread and a bottle of milk from one of the corner shops. The owner watched with a raised eyebrow, but Saleem kept his head down and paid quietly for his purchase, eager to get out of sight.
His stomach cramped as he ate, but Saleem could feel himself recovering, his head clearing. As the sun sank into the horizon, he made his way back to the construction sites, purchased some more food along the way, and found a dusty, familiar shelter.
There were no options. Saleem would either persist or rot in this country, away from his family. His bruises would heal. He needed to learn from his mistakes.
He went back to watching the docks from enough distance that he was out of sight from the truckers. He stared at the ferries and tried to find an opening. There were blue-and-white-uniformed crew members guiding passengers onto the ship. There was no getting past them and onto the main deck.
He could try the trucks again. Maybe go around the back this time, though he remembered one of the boys in Attiki telling him about a friend who had died from inhaling the exhaust fumes for too long.