(no subject)

[kayip]

"No, they're too dark. Try these instead."

Four days.

It's the third pair they've been through. So far, the lenses had either been too light to disguise the color of his eyes, or so dark it was obvious they were fake. His eyes are aching, but apparently aren't red enough to merit the break they'd promised.

There was a stack of clothes at the end of the bed. A man came in to remove the IV, help him up – his legs nearly collapsed beneath him and he didn't realize it.

They're quiet on the next lenses. No immediate response is something like a relief – at least maybe it means this will stop soon. But they move onto another.

There's a scar on his chest that wasn't there before. Thin, barely noticeable. There's another on his arm. No one says anything about them, and he doesn't ask – there won't be any answers.

After they've gone through seven pairs of lenses, there's finally a relent. He's left alone for the moment – there are no windows in any of these rooms, and through subtle scents and sounds, he thinks it's probably somewhere underground. A dull lightbulb buzzes, irritatingly, and it's all he lets himself think about until the door opens again.

They didn't have to ask.

The man who enters is carrying a plastic bag, and a briefcase. The plastic bag goes on the table between them.

"Those are you things from your room. There's some clothes, too. We sold the textbooks you won't need and destroyed your old records."

Behrooz looks between the man and the bag, before peering into it – the Arabic Qur'an he was somewhat surprised they kept giving back, the cd, the small plastic bag with two silver rings.

"We couldn't find your documents, Behrooz –"

He doesn't say anything, just continues looking through the bag as though expecting to find something new.

"- you must know where they are."

Without looking up, "They're safe."

Maybe. He knows where they are, and it might not really be the safest place, especially if he can't get back there. But he's fairly certain these people can't get there at all.

The man sits down across from him, and Behrooz finally stops looking through the bag. "You know, if you've revealed your identity –"

"No one's seen them," Behrooz interjects. The man looks like he's going to push it further, and Behrooz looks away again.

"We know where you're going."

He looks up, suddenly trying to suppress worry again – not breathe in too quickly or not at all, stare too expectantly. The man opens the briefcase, pulling out various papers, a key. There's an address in Fairfax, Virginia on the top, and the man continues.

"You'll be there during the summer. The job will be enough for you until the fall."

"What happens in the fall?" Behrooz asks quietly, reading the papers in front of him while the man pulls out another small stack. There's a drivers' license for someone named Orhan attached to the front.

"You'll go back to school. We'll get to that later. This place you'll be living for the next few months is a mostly Muslim community that's been growing for over a decade."

The boy looks up from peering at the license now. It's a rather empty gaze.

"We want you to keep your eyes open, things like that."

His eyes drop, and his stomach seems to twist, but he goes back to reading the papers, not responding. An acquiescent silence. "You speak Arabic?"

Behrooz wasn't expecting this question, but manages to keep his eyes down. "Some. I had to use it more when I was younger."

"And Spanish?"

Slowly, "... I took it in school."

The man nods. "We'll talk more about that later. Read that. Someone will come get you in about an hour."

As he's standing, Behrooz just says it, all at once, not looking up.

"What happened to me?"

There isn't even a pause as the man closes his briefcase and leaves. The door closes softly.