RAHIM'S PANGOLIN
“TONIGHT,” DADU CLAPS me on the back, “we work, Rahim. We work like men.”
Outside the first few stars are beginning to appear. Dadu climbs on his bicycle and chuckles as my friend Aslam and I jog along beside him. “Come on, boys, can’t you keep up with an old man?”
The air feels as heavy as a blanket. The monsoon is late this year, and the earth is dry and cracked underfoot. A sweet smell wafts from Mr. Ahmed’s prized mango trees as we pass. Aslam slows his jog, reaches to pick a few mangoes, and crams them into his pockets—just like that, as if Mr. Ahmed couldn’t run out the door at any minute, waving his massive arms. I wish I were as lucky as Aslam with his movie-star hair, always into mischief, never getting caught. I wish I were at home, studying for that exam tomorrow . . . I wish.
