(no subject)

[kayip]

Come, come, whoever you are.


"But you'll be safe?"

Behrooz paused – his eyes glanced up at the man sitting across from him, who was checking his watch, and nodded in a 'get on with it' sort of way.

"Yeah," Behrooz answered into the receiver, "I have family there. I'm not being charged with anything."

"Just make sure you know where you're going."

He didn't answer – there's just another blank moment before, "Can you tell Behdin Rehmani for me?"

"Of course, Orhan, if you can't yourself..." the imam's voice trailed off uncertainly, but Behrooz didn't clarify it further.

*

Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving

Behrooz insisted on watching as the doctor applied a local anesthetic, and carefully sliced into his upper arm – it still hurt, but not enough that he pulled away – the tiny bit of metal was just under the skin, removed easily, two stitches to fix.

It's better than being sliced open in the back of a moving van, at least.

It doesn't matter

*

That morning, the navy blue backpack sat open on his bed – he'd scoured every inch of it for something that wasn't supposed to be there. Behrooz isn't exactly an expert of bugging or tracking technology, but he figures he can still search with some confidence. Once satisfied, he piles the cash that'd come with it back inside – he doesn't count to see if it's all there. He's not sure how much it will matter.

Everything else that goes in the bag – little things like a toothbrush and toothpaste, a new drivers license, clothes – gets the same close inspection. He accidentally breaks the toothbrush in half in the process, but keeps it all the same – he'd missed having one on the walk to Pakistan.

When the knife is retrieved, it's tucked in the waistband of his jeans – made easier to hide by the too-big t-shirt he's been given. It's not until after lunch that he has to worry about it, though, as the boss enters his room, and it's easy enough for Behrooz to see through any false sense of calm the man tries to project. His eyes glance around outside the hall before he enters, and the closes the door quietly.

"Are you ready to go, then?" Said too quickly. It's all pounding in Behrooz's mind.

"Yeah," he answers, heaving the backpack on his shoulders.

"I'm going to take you to the train station in Manassas – I'm guessing you can figure out your way from there."

Behrooz just walks to the door.


Ours is not a caravan of despair

*

Come, even if you have broken your vow

Manassas is only about half an hour from where they were – but the minutes feel like hours from when the man starts up the black car, and Behrooz leans against the window. He really only has to wait ten minutes or so, as they're driving along I-86, he notice how they seem to slow before the man says anything.

"I think the tire's going flat…" he mutters, signaling immediately. It's two in the afternoon on a work day, so there's almost no traffic as he pulls over to the side of the highway, coming to a halt along the gravel next to the trees. "Want to help?"

"Ok," Behrooz mumbles.

The knife is pulled out before he's slammed the door. The man doesn't look at him, just walks around to the back of the car, turning his back to Behrooz as he inspects a tire that looks perfectly fine. Behrooz can see the shuffled movements easily enough as the man reaches into his side holster.

"I thought it –"

And they move together – the man to pull out the gun as he stands, Behrooz to put the knife against his throat. The man's slow enough that Behrooz can grab his wrist as he moves, restraining him from aiming the gun at anything but the ground. No cars pass by.

"Just hand it to me," Behrooz whispers it, not bothering to keep desperation out of his voice, and the man isn't slow to comply. Behrooz quickly trades the knife for the gun – he's not really surprised he doesn't have to look for another.

"Your cell phone, too," he doesn't really say it like a demand, but the man quickly tosses it over. Behrooz shoves it in his pocket for the moment, glancing around briefly toward a speed limit sign. He nods toward it. The man's shoulders seem to slump a little, and he pulls out his handcuffs.

"I guess I should be glad you're not smashing my head in, then," he calls over calmly.

Behrooz doesn't take the gun off him, and the man's posture stiffens when he responds, "Yeah. You should." It might make the man hesitate before snapping one cuff to his wrist, the other to the signpost, but he still does, and even then Behrooz doesn't lower his weapon, but he tosses the phone on the ground, just out of the man's reach. At a distance, he calls, "Give me the keys."

"They can trace the car," but the man tosses them over. Behrooz doesn't respond, and heads toward the driver's side door.

"Hey –"

He doesn't stop.

" – look, I'm –"

"Sorry for trying to kill me, fine," Behrooz calls back without looking up.

"Do you really think they won't find you?" he asks it like a genuine question, and Behrooz finally does look up, before getting in the car.

"I guess you should hope not."

He drives three miles before abandoning the car and running into the forest.

a thousand times

*


It's hard to run for very long with that backpack, and it's comforting to know he'd hear them before he saw them. But he knows he can't rely on getting a head start, as likely as it may be, and he's not going to get that far on foot.

It's hours later, but he does manage to find a gas station as it turns dark enough for him to come out of the forest mostly unnoticed. What he needs, he's realized, is a car – or someone to drive him, who will ignore the fact that they're picking up a random Middle Eastern kid when Behrooz can produce a few hundred dollars.

But getting father than another city or state – that will be harder. Even trying to sneak across a border now would be almost impossible.

But Behrooz is hungry, and the hunger seems to pull down his thoughts – he heads toward the lights of the gas station, hears in his head that sound the glass door should make when he pushes it open.

Except the sound never comes.



Come, yet again, come, come



[OOC: Whitetext is a quote from Rumi]