SmokeLong Quarterly

Even after the checkpoint raids, after the night the militia kicked down every door in our neighborhood and dragged everyone into the street, even after the sky turned red with smoke from the burning cotton fields and the water tank cracked open, spilling what little clean water was left into the dirt, Raja still believed—maybe stupidly—that he and Nadi would find a way out together, that they’d sneak past the fences under the cover of the prayer calls, or maybe bribe the right driver with Raja’s mother’s earrings and Nadi’s mother’s wedding ring, or maybe just run faster than the bullets, if it came down to that, but when the visas came, when the seats on the bus were counted and the official with the blue hat and clipboard shook his head—“Only one of you”—Raja froze, too stunned to argue, too ashamed to look at Nadi, who only shrugged and smiled like it was nothing, like it was just another game they used to play as kids, racing up the fig trees to see who could reach the top first, but this time Nadi didn’t race, just stood there, hands in his pockets, and so Raja stepped onto the bus alone, not daring to look back, carrying only a plastic bag of bread, his mother’s earrings and scarf—still faintly smelling of smoke—and his father’s prayer beads, and a promise he would later break a thousand times, because what else could you call it when you survive and your brother, your shadow, your best friend, your other self, disappears into a silence so wide that no radio signal, no letter, no embassy can quite cross it, a silence you carry folded into your chest like a map you’re too afraid to unfold.