“How is he, Sister?”
“Fine, fine… most of the drugs have cleared, but withdrawal will take time.”
“When can he go home?”
“In a day or two, if you are sure you can manage him. He might not be the same boy that you knew.”
“We can take care of him.”
“Alright then.”
Footsteps drifted away. Muthomi opened his eyes and twitched at the light overhead. A breeze flowed over him from an open window above his head.
“How are you feeling today?”
A lean, hard face looked down on him from his bedside. The man wore some kind of uniform with letters embroidered over the breast of the sweater.
Muthomi froze.
“You are safe now,” said the guard, reading Muthomi’s mind.
Panic shook Muthomi from head to toe. He sat up with a start, looking frantically around the room.
“Where is Kioko?” he demanded. His hand flew to his sore jaw; he hissed with pain.
“He is not with us,” said the guard. “You are in a hospital, not on campus. Please, calm yourself.”
Muthomi looked around again: beside him were rows of beds with light green blankets and white sheets, some occupied by sleeping patients, others empty. Instead of a bunk above him, there was an intravenous bag; he followed its tube down to his left arm and immediately yanked it out.
The guard waved the Sister over.
She tutted at Muthomi, fussed over the drip tube, reinserted it into his arm and adjusted the bag, explaining to him that this was medicine, not poison. When she left, the guard pulled a white curtain all around Muthomi’s bed. He recoiled at the noise as the steel curtain hoops grated across the railing. The guard sat on the bedside chair and waited. He knew the questions would come.
“Why am I here? What happened?” he asked. He could only remember blackness between flashes of pain and strange voices. His tongue moved strangely in his mouth, finding gaps where his teeth should be.
“The enemy captured you,” said the guard. “They kept you locked up and drugged. It was a miracle that we managed to save you.”
“Kioko…”
“He didn’t make it. He was a good soldier.”
The man was lying. Kioko couldn’t be dead. He was his only friend.
“We cannot stay here forever. You have been here three days already. The Sister says that we can leave tomorrow. The Union is waiting for you, Njema.”
“No,” said Muthomi. “I want to go home.”
“I will take you home, to where you belong. It is what your father would have wanted.”
Run.
“Will you take me to Ndoro?”
The man looked puzzled. “No, no.” He glanced over his shoulder, listened for footsteps. When none came, he whispered, “I am taking you to our headquarters.”
Run.
“But I want to go home, to my mother, to Mama Oti.”
“You will see them again, in time. We must report to the Union first. Now, you must rest. I will be back to see you in the evening.”
The man left before Muthomi could protest.
There was a small open locker beside his bed. On top of it was a cup of water; inside, a roll of toilet paper on the top shelf, a black bag on the bottom. He forced his back to bend, pleaded with the sharp ache in his head to cease, urged his arms to pick up the bag, the drip tube tugging at his hand. Every action left him winded.
There was a set of clean clothes inside the bag, a bottle of water, a pair of shoes… but no book. It was not under the bed or on his person, not hidden in the back of the locker. It was gone.
Protect it with your life.
Muthomi had failed.
He leaned over the edge of his bed and retched onto the floor. The Sister was immediately beside him, patting his back, complaining that if he knew he was going to be sick, he should have done so in the basin that was right there beside his bed. She muttered on and on as she tore pieces of toilet paper and wiped Muthomi’s face down. She grumbled as she held the cup of water to his lips and asked him to swallow. She groused as she lay him back down onto the bed and pulled the covers up to his chest. She was still whining when she returned to Muthomi’s bedside with...