“Somewhere? Around here?”
Now I feel myself losing patience. “You don’t even know where this place is, do you?” I say to him. “You said it was right down the street from Hugo’s neighborhood, but we’ve been walking in circles for at least twenty minutes, and now we’re in the Ship District, and I have no interest in spending time in the Ship District.”
My pager buzzes.
“No, wait, we’re so close, I swear,” Kenji says, looking around. “It’s supposed to be here.”
We’re stopped on the sidewalk in a congested part of the city lit by twinkle lights, touches of neon, and sans serif signs. The streets are thicker with bodies here, kids in their late teens and early twenties idling in outfits that will almost certainly embarrass them in five years’ time. The businesses here were built from repurposed shipping containers salvaged from the old regulated territories—when The Reestablishment forced the entire population out of their homes and into manageable seas of metal prisons, corralling them like cattle. The dark history of these rugged containers has been rewritten by a generation too young to remember the blood that birthed them.
It was Winston’s idea.
He and Alia designed the spread and built out the vision under Ella’s direction. There are Ship Districts in several cities across the continent; they’re part of the global initiative to redevelop old regulated turf. The raw, rectangular containers make for interesting visual architecture, but they also support small businesses and generate decent revenue for the city. I don’t disapprove, generally.
I just don’t want to be here.
I have no interest in trying new foods or waiting in lines or standing in humid, sweat-stained rooms with a sea of loud, unwashed strangers. Not only do I not enjoy being a public figure in public, but my work consumes far more thanhalf my life. The precious few hours a day I have to myself I like to spend with my wife. I don’t go out at night unless I’m with my wife.
If Ella isn’t with me, I’m in the wrong place.
My pager buzzes.
I give myself another ten seconds.
“Shit,” says Kenji suddenly. “Okay, wait, I think this might be the wrong street.”
There’s a burst of laughter from a group nearby; a cloud of sweet-scented smoke drifts into my face.
“All right, enough,” I say. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”
“No way—we’re so close—”
“You don’t know that,” I say to him. “You don’t even know where we are. How did you even hear about this place?”
“Haider told me about it.”
“Haider?” I echo. “Haider, who lives on the other side of the world? That Haider?”
My pager buzzes again.
And again.
“How would Haider know more about finding a dumpling restaurant than we would?” I ask him. “And since when do you keep in touch with Haider?”
Kenji makes a face. “I never stopped being in touch with Haider. Haider is still trying to teach me Arabic. I talk to Haider all the time. Unlike you, I actually answer his messages. You didn’t even sayhappy birthdayto him last month, by the way. And his feelings are still hurt.”
I sigh loudly.
“Anyway, Haider heard about this new spot because apparently it’s right next to that huge mural of your face.”
I straighten, alarmed. “Which huge mural of my face?”
“Or, no, wait, not your face. I think it’s the one where you’re, like, flying? Or maybe the one where you’re, like, naked on a horse.”
Cold mortification moves through my body. “That one is across town.”
“Isn’t there one where you’ve got flowers coming out of your mouth?”
“They’re knives.”
