Yev closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
Closed them.
Opened—
The car shuddered, tires rolling over the ragged seam where Colony's broken pavement surrendered to the main road's cracked asphalt. Like crossing from one country to another without papers. Yev counted the yellow lines as they blurred past—one, two, three—then lost track when a truck roared by, its exhaust thick as spoiled milk.
His uncle cranked the window down, spat. The wind snatched it, scattering droplets across the cracked dashboard. He didn't bother to wipe his mouth, just sat back, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Traffic thickened like congealed gravy. Brake lights pulsed ahead, a thousand angry eyes winking. His uncle drummed the steering wheel with fingers like chewed pencils. "Fuck's sake." The radio murmured static, occasionally coughing up a word—"—temperatures—"—before dissolving again.
Yev pressed his forehead to the glass. A woman in the next car peeled an orange with her thumbs, the rind curling like sunburned skin. She caught him staring. Didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just watched him back until the light changed and she was gone.
Behind them, Colony Park's fence shrank to a scribble, then vanished. Ahead, the city stacked itself in layers—bridges stitching the skyline together, billboards screaming about teeth whitener and Bee Bald Scrub, pigeons exploding off ledges like shrapnel. His uncle's phone buzzed again, skittering across the dashboard. Yev watched the screen flash "MIRA — (16 missed calls)"
Mira. The name burned in his mind like a brand. She was the one who always came through, the girl he called when he needed a distraction—beautiful, reckless, and always ready to forget the world for a while. She knew how to make him forget everything, even if just for a night. But lately, she'd been calling more urgently, her messages sharper, her voice tinged with desperation. He had heard rumors—she was running out of clients, desperate for cash.
Mira had let him have his fun for free, knowing she'd get paid eventually, but now her calls were urgent. She needed money—fast. He knew she was in trouble; she never called so often unless it was serious. She wanted him to find her more clients, to keep her afloat. The thought of her desperation made his stomach tighten, but he kept his eyes on the road, pretending he didn't hear.
"Don't," his uncle warned, though Yev hadn't moved. The man snatched the phone, thumbed it silent again. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass. The car inched forward. A street vendor hawked knock-off perfumes between lanes, his cart wobbling on one busted wheel. "Smell rich for five bucks!"
Yev exhaled fog onto the window. With his fingertip, he drew a stick-figure crow. Then a girl upside down. Then erased it.
The car lurched again, and his uncle muttered something that wasn't Russian, wasn't English, just a gutter sound from the back of his throat. The city peeled past—laundromats with flickering signs, a pawn shop displaying a single gold tooth under glass. A girl walked the cracked footpath ahead, her neon backpack screaming against the gray. She stopped a man leaning against a bus stop pole.
"Is Shubastu Home Girls Hostel here?" Her voice carried through Yev's half-open window, sharp as a pencil snapping. "Google Maps says—"
The man bit into a roti wrapped in newspaper, grease staining his fingers yellow. "Thirty-two before," he said, chewing. "Now eighteen. Things change." He pointed with his chin toward a building with boarded-up windows, the letters 'SUB ST' still clinging to the chipped facade like a stubborn scab.
Yev's uncle snorted. "Ghost hostel. They moved it after the pipes burst. Kids slept standing up like fucking bats." He flicked ash out the window. "You piss in a sink for three months, you learn."
The car rolled past the derelict building. Yev pressed his nose to the glass. Behind the plywood, something moved—a shadow, or maybe a pigeon. The girl with the neon backpack kicked a soda can, cursed in what might've been Telugu, and marched onward, her phone outstretched like a divining rod.
His uncle's phone buzzed again. This time he answered. "What."
Silence.
Then—
"No. I said "no"." A truck honked. The phone hit the dashboard with a plastic crack. "Blyad."
Yev picked at the broken seatbelt. The crow feather stuck to his thumb. Outside, the city folded in on itself—alleyways birthing smaller alleyways, fire escapes zigzagging down buildings like stitches holding the block together. A woman on a second floor balcony beat a rug with a shoe. Dust rained down onto a bald man selling counterfeit watches from a baby stroller.
The radio crackled softly, then settled into a familiar tune. A voice resonated gently over the static, and soon the soulful melody of "সালাম সালাম হাজার সালাম" filled the car. The song, a tribute to the martyrs of the Bangladesh Liberation War, echoed through the vehicle, carrying memories of sacrifice and patriotism.
Yev listened quietly, his eyes resting on the bustling city outside. The song's poignant lyrics and stirring melody seemed to momentarily pause the chaos around him, evoking a deep sense of pride and remembrance. The car's engine hummed along as the timeless tribute played on, a reminder of the blood, sacrifice, and freedom that shaped their history.
"Hungry?" his uncle asked, not looking at him.
Yev shrugged. His stomach growled anyway.
His uncle pulled into a lot where the asphalt had melted and reset into waves. A neon sign buzzed: "BZRK BURGRZ". The 'Z' flickered like a dying fly. Inside, the air smelled of old oil and industrial cleaner. A kid in a stained uniform handed them two wrapped burgers without speaking.
Yev's uncle peeled the paper back. The patty slid out, gray and limp. "Pizdets." He tossed it into a bin already overflowing with identical failed burgers.
Yev took a bite. It tasted like the smell of Colony Park's swing chains—metallic, with undertones of someone else's sweat. The flavor was cheap and harsh, like fast food from a hurried city joint—bland, greasy, and entirely uninspired. He chewed anyway. His uncle lit another cigarette off the stove's pilot light.
Outside, the neon backpack girl trudged past again, her phone now dark. She glanced at the derelict hostel one last time, then turned down an alley where the shadows pooled thick as motor oil.
Yev swallowed. The burger clung to his ribs like a fist.
His uncle exhaled smoke through his nose. "Home," he said, "though neither of them moved."
Somewhere beyond the city limits, Ira's scream still echoed in a hospital stairwell. Somewhere closer, Lir balanced on the monkey bars with her arms outstretched, the sunset painting her scars the color of stolen candy.
Yev folded the burger wrapper into a tiny, greasy crow. Set it on the dashboard. Watched it tremble with the engine's idle.
The world kept moving.