“Take . . . OFF.”
In his voice was the clear message that there would be no way out of this. Saleem felt incredibly alone and small. He took a few deep breaths before doing as instructed, his fingers fumbling nervously with the button and zipper before he slowly brought his pants down to his ankles. His briefs hung loosely on his hips. Saleem stared at the ceiling.
“Take off.” The doctor touched the waistband of his underwear as he snapped the gloves over his thick hands. Saleem felt a heat rush over him. What was this doctor looking for?
Saleem’s breath was a slow and bitter exhalation, an effort to expel his humiliation in a whistle of air. He pulled his briefs down to his knees. The doctor adjusted his lenses and peered interestedly at the area between Saleem’s legs. From his bag, he pulled out a paper tape measure and used it to assess whether Saleem’s body had a different answer to the age question.
Saleem hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child. Part of him wanted to drive his fist through the doctor’s curious glasses while another part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and wail. The exam concluded before Saleem could act.
“Okay, finished.” He motioned for Saleem to pull up his underpants and jeans, as he jotted something into a notepad that fit in his palm. “Any health problems?” he asked as Saleem hurried to pull up his briefs and jeans.
“No. No problems.”
“How old?” The question resurfaced. It dawned on Saleem this was the reason for the doctor’s visit, explaining his focus between Saleem’s thighs, the part of him that had changed most in the last few years.
“Fifteen,” Saleem answered meekly.
“Hmph.” The doctor paused briefly to look at Saleem’s face and scribbled a few more notes. He packed up his tools, retrieved his white coat, and exited the room without any further conversation.
Alone, Saleem began to pace the room, his anger fanned by exhaustion. He let out a short yell that bounced from wall to wall. He yelled again—longer and louder.
Saleem put his palms and forehead against the wall. It felt cold and real, realer than the rest of his situation. He brought his right palm against the wall a second time, harder.
Again and again, harder and harder, Saleem slapped his palm against the cold wall as the past twenty-four hours spun through his head: the policeman grabbing his elbow as he exited the pawnshop, the cigarette smoke blown in his face, the doctor examining his genitals with more attention than the customs officer had paid to their travel documents, his mother frantic in the hotel or searching the streets, Samira frightened and silent, his father watching and shaking his head in disappointment, Aziz’s tiny chest heaving with discomfort. They exploded above him like a shower of rockets, raining down on his head and shoulders when there was nowhere to run and nothing that could be done.
Saleem was pounding the wall with two hands now, enraged and crying. He didn’t notice the door open behind him.
“Hey! Hey!” Saleem felt a hand pull his shoulder. It was Officer G, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “You crazy?”
Saleem turned around and slumped to the floor, weakened by his outburst. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Almost as if the officer and Saleem realized this at the same time, he left the room and returned with a plate. There were a few pieces of chicken kebab and pita bread. He put the plate on the table unceremoniously.
“Eat something.”
Saleem’s breathing slowed. His palms stung, pulsing. He returned to the table in defeat. He took the food and chewed bite after bite, tasting nothing. He stared at the plate, letting his eyes gloss over and his muscles relax. The officer watched Saleem, a specimen in a jar. Captivating to his captors.
Saleem ate without looking up or saying a word. Maybe if his belly stopped growling, he could come up with a way to get out of this mess. Maybe he could figure a way to get back to his mother.